Remain
by Nikkette
Summary: She stopped, pausing for a moment to see if he would try to grab her and drag her out, and when he didn't, she pushed herself forward and hesitantly – ever so hesitantly – laid her hand in his. Greta isn't able to get the hatch open in time and is forced to make a dangerous decision. Greta x Brahms.
1. No Escape

**A/N: I know I probably shouldn't be posting this, as I have plenty of other stories that need finishing, but I figure what the heck, if I don't post it now I probably never will. I loved The Boy and was disappointed in the lack of GretaxBrahms FanFictions (well, non-M ones that is) so I made this. Hope you enjoy. I'll try and post the next chapter as soon as possible.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _You wanted to play, the coldness follows_

 _This isn't a game, your life I'll swallow_

 _And I can't help but smile at your pain_

 _You wanted to play but I already won_

KoRn – Lullaby For A Sadist~

* * *

Chapter one: No Escape~

* * *

There was nothing she could do.

Greta watched in horror as Brahms locked his hands around Malcolm's throat and slammed him down, smacking his head into the ground. Brahms, whom she had thought was dead. Gone. Burned alive. A spirit inside a _doll_. The boy she had been tasked with taking care of was right in front of her, very much real, very much alive, choking the life out of the man she had come to consider a friend.

And there was nothing she could do to help him.

Greta squirmed in the tight crawlspace, frantically twisting around to face the trapdoor behind her. She pushed against it with all her might, ramming her elbow into the aged wood again and again as she tried to ignore Malcolm's screams and focus on getting away to find help. Seeing that her efforts were having no effect, she backed up onto her hands and kicked at it, adding more force each time she drew back. Still, it wouldn't budge. Panicking, she lurched forward and spread her jittery hands across the door, splinters poking at her skin as she tried to find an opening or latch of some sort-

And that's when the screaming stopped.

She froze, body going rigid as the breath seized in her lungs. She slowly pulled her hands away from the trapdoor, swallowing as she timidly turned around.

Brahms was crouched over Malcolm's unmoving body, a metal object in his hand. His harsh, angry breaths were amplified by his mask, and Greta could only stare at the horrifying scene before her. The sudden silence was deafening, and the only thing she could really hear was the sound of her own heart beating, terrified, in her chest.

Brahms dropped his weapon, a loud, scraping clang ringing out as it hit the floor. She jumped, a short, involuntary scream bursting from her lips, and she immediately wished she had stayed quiet; his head snapped towards her, eyes locking with hers through the set of thick pipes running across the skinny crawlspace – the only thing truly separating them - and any and all urges she had to make noise ceased to exist.

"...Greta?" He called, his child-like voice echoing through the crawlspace.

Tears pricked at her eyes and her lip began to tremble, her body shaking uncontrollably as the fear turned her muscles to lead.

"Greta, come back," he called again, leaning down past the pipes to crawl after her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it all to just be a dream and go away, hoping that she would wake up and find herself safe in bed.

"Greta?"

Except that it wasn't a dream, and the danger she was in was very real.

Greta slowly opened her eyes and blinked away her tears, sniffling. Brahms was only a few feet away from her, staring curiously yet intently at her. His tall frame blocked her exit, her only means of escape with the door behind her being unwilling to open, and she tried to not completely break down right then and there.

"Greta, please come back," he coaxed. "I'll be good. I promise."

He held out his hand, and Greta instinctively shrank away from it. Seconds passed, and she half-expected him to lose his patience and come dragging her out of her hiding place. But more time went by, and nothing happened. She sat there, tense as a spring and ready to react at even the slightest movement, but nothing came. He just stared at her, unmoving, with his hand extended towards her.

" _Please_ , Greta," he pleaded. "Don't run away."

His eyes looked almost sad, as if he would be heartbroken if she ran away, but she had seen enough of his true self to know better than to believe the facade he put on in front of her.

She took in a shaky breath, trying to weigh her options.

She supposed she could try to run, feign compliance and then bolt for the nearest exit at the first opportunity. But there was no guarantee she would actually be able to escape; Brahms was much stronger and faster than he looked, she had seen that, and in all likeliness her attempt would fail miserably. She would only cause him to become angry, maybe even hurt her, despite his obsession with her. And even if she _did_ escape, even if she was able to get away and alert the authorities, there was no assurance that Malcolm would still be alive; Brahms could very well kill him in his anger if she left. Even the best-case scenario wasn't a good one.

Regardless of how many ways she tossed it, however, regardless of all the different angles she tried to work and scenarios she played out in her head, it all boiled down to two facts: if she agreed to go with him, there were at least a few different possibilities as to what she could do for herself and Malcolm. In this crawlspace, there were none.

Besides, she assured herself, Brahms wasn't like other boys. Or in her case, other men. He liked rules, structure, order. And if she followed the rules, complied with his wishes, he wouldn't hurt her...hopefully. Either way, if she ever hoped to get out of this alive, the smartest thing to do was play along.

Taking a deep breath, Greta slowly inched forward, keeping her legs in front of her as she crawled towards Brahms. He cocked his head to the side, as though puzzled as to why she chose to move that way, but didn't drop his hand. He waited, patient as a fox as she made her way toward him. She stopped when her legs were within touching distance, pausing for a moment to see if he would try to grab her and drag her out, and when he didn't, she pushed herself forward and hesitantly – _ever_ so hesitantly – laid her hand in his.

A smug look of triumph passed over his eyes, and Brahms gently closed his fingers around hers, slowly backing up and leading her out of the small crawlspace. She fearfully followed, her movements jerky from the dying adrenaline running through her system.

Her eyes found Malcolm's body as she crawled out of her hiding place, relieved when she saw that he was still breathing. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him other than a nasty gash on his forehead, and with any luck, he would live. They both would.

Brahms stood up and, still holding her hand, tugged her to her feet.

She bowed her head, not wanting to look at him, and wordlessly allowed herself to be led back through the maze of the wall cavity.

* * *

They stepped out through the broken shutters Brahms had crashed through to get to she and Malcolm, emerging in the reading room.

She looked around at all of the books and shelves that lined the walls, at the chairs she used to sit herself and Brahms – the _fake_ Brahms, she reminded herself – in to read, and felt an aching longing for the boy she had loved so much just hours before. She was broken from her reverie when Brahms dropped her hand, and she flinched back in surprise when she saw the way he was staring at her.

Though she could only see his eyes, it was obvious that he was admiring her. His gaze swept over her face, taking in every little detail, and she had to turn away from the intensity of it. It could almost be described as genuine affection, but she knew better than to confuse obsession with love.

She let out a shaky breath, trying to calm herself. Brahms lifted a hand to her face, and she jumped at the sudden contact. He weaved his fingers through her hair, stroking her cheek with his thumb. His touch was soft and gentle, but she didn't trust it for a second. She remained as still as possible as he inspected her.

He moved his masked nose to hover over her hair, and she could hear him as he inhaled deeply. He leaned closer and brought his other hand to her neck, and she couldn't help it when she took a tiny step back. She wanted nothing more than to put some space between them, unnerved with the direction things seemed to be headed, but he was having none of it; with every inch she backed away, he pushed forward with twice as much eagerness. Every step she took was matched with two of his own, and she gasped as he pushed her into the wall and dipped his head into the crook of her shoulder.

He slowly trailed his porcelain nose up her neck and past her jawline, taking up every inch of personal space she had as he breathed her in, and she remained completely frozen, unsure of what she should do. She didn't know how much farther she should allow her current situation to escalate; she didn't want to overreact and cause Brahms to get angry, but she also didn't want him to think he could just do whatever he wanted with her either. But she knew she had to do _something_.

She remained stock-still as Brahms continued his ministrations, running his masked face down the other side of her own as he played with the strands of her hair. She contemplated just suffering through it (after all, she supposed he wasn't really doing anything _wrong_ ) but when his left hand began to trail from her neck to her waist, she decided she'd had enough.

She timidly moved to grab the offending hand, but he paid her silent warning no mind as he pushed back the edge of her cardigan and slipped his fingers past the barrier of cloth. With no other options, she decided to resort to the only thing she could think of that would get him to stop.

"Brahms!"

It was a knee-jerk reaction, a panicking way for her to get his attention.

But it worked.

Brahms jerked back, startled at her shout of his name, and pulled away to stare at her with slightly wide eyes.

"It...it's time for bed now." She said, giving him a serious look.

Brahms seemed a bit shocked at her choice of words, but didn't make any sounds or movements to indicate that he was angry with her for it. Still, there was no sense in giving him time to think it over.

" _Now_ , Brahms." She said, trying to sound authoritative. "You know the rules."

Brahms stared at her, motionless, and there was a single, heart-stopping moment of silence where she thought he might decide he had other plans for how the night should go, but in the end, her knowledge of his like for rules and order paid off. He shifted on his feet and slowly nodded his obedience, but she didn't allow herself to feel relieved until his fingers slipped out of her hair and he stepped away.

She walked past him to the edge of the room, where she turned and stood at the doorway, waiting for him. He stood watching her for a moment, seeming to consider whether or not he should listen to her, but ultimately moved to follow.

* * *

She led him up the stairs and down the hall to his room, turning on the lights and moving to pull back the covers of his bed.

She turned and waited for him to climb in, but he made no such move to do so. He just stood there by the doorframe, shifting uncertainly on his feet. She realized that the sudden change in behavior she had exhibited must have seemed suspicious if nothing else, and she quickly decided that reassurance was her best route to get him to let his guard down.

"Come on, Brahms," she said sweetly, smiling. "It's time to go to sleep now."

She felt as though she were coaxing a puppy into its cage. A very twisted, psychotic puppy, but a puppy nonetheless.

Seeming to decide that her intentions weren't harmful, Brahms idled by the doorway a few moments longer before walking over to his bed and getting in. Greta grabbed hold of the covers and tucked him in, trying to keep her happy disposition in place as she avoided staring at that porcelain face.

"Now you go straight to sleep, okay?" She said softly, looking down at him.

He said nothing in response, and she took that as her cue to leave.

"Kiss," he called suddenly, boyish voice cracking.

She froze, hands still at the hem of the covers, and made sure to keep her voice as soft and disarming as possible. "No, Brahms. Not tonight. It's your punishment, I'm sorry."

A beat of silence passed and she turned to leave, but a sudden hand on her wrist stopped her from going any further.

Her breath hitched and she cautiously turned to face him, looking first at the fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist and then to the face (or rather, mask) of its owner. She took in a sharp breath when she noticed the way his eyes had changed; they were darker, more malicious, dangerously determined. And she knew she was in real trouble.

" _Kiss_..." He said again, voice dropping to a low, masculine whisper.

Greta wasn't stupid. She knew that the hold he had on her – though fairly gentle – was a warning; if she didn't give him what he wanted, and right now, she could very well end up like Malcolm. There was no negotiating, no way out, no choice, though he may have tried to give her the illusion of it. No, there was only one thing she was allowed to do in that moment: follow the rules.

She turned to face him fully and stepped forward, slowly, hesitantly. The hold on her wrist loosened until it was nonexistent, and she comforted herself with the thought that it would all be over soon. Just a quick kiss, and she was out of there. She had to follow the rules.

Brahms laid back down when he was confident she wouldn't deny him what he wanted, and she mentally prepared herself for what she was about to do. Bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of his head, she slowly began to lean down towards his face.

The hand he had used to grab onto her wrist trailed up her arm and into her hair, fingers weaving up the back of her neck and sending unpleasant shivers down her spine. His other hand came to rest at her shoulder, gripping the fabric of her cardigan, and she tried desperately to keep herself from panicking at the close contact. Steeling herself, she continued to lean down.

Apparently she wasn't moving fast enough for him, because Brahms leaned up and met her more than halfway, his porcelain lips pressing into her own. She widened her eyes, shocked beyond words as he suddenly fisted his hands in her hair and clothes, eliciting a small squeak from her as he pulled her down onto the bed with him. She could feel his quickened breath against her skin as he kissed her, and she struggled to figure out what to do. Should she kick him? Hit him? Tear herself away and run? Scream? She had to do _something!_ But just as she was deciding on which of those four options to take, Brahms stopped.

He let go of the fabric around her arm and let his hand slide from her hair, and she pulled away. Greta looked at him, speechless as she leaned over him. They both stared at one another, trying to regain their breath (though for very different reasons). It seemed like an eternity had passed between them, though it had only been a few seconds, and she blushed in embarrassment at what she had just allowed to occur.

Looking away, Greta slowly pushed herself off of the bed and stood up, still processing what had just happened. Numbly, she walked over to the doorway and rested her hand on the button for the lights, keeping her eyes on the floor as she angled her face towards Brahms.

"Goodnight," she whispered, not really knowing what else to say.

She pushed the button when she received no response, and once the room was bathed in darkness, she quickly moved to close the door. She hurried to her own room just across the hall, locking herself in the moment she was inside, and slumped against the door. Tears filled her eyes and she began hyperventilating, the stress and panic from the night's events finally catching up with her.

What was she going to do? How was she going to get Malcolm and leave the house without Brahms knowing? How could she possibly make things play out so they had a happy ending?

A loud, sudden sniffle escaped her, and she hastily covered her mouth, afraid that Brahms might hear her and decide to investigate.

She couldn't even cry in privacy. What made her think that she could do anything that would benefit her _and_ Malcolm? What made her think she could do anything at all?

 _But there has to be something,_ she stubbornly thought _. There has to be._

 _Wait_ , her mind told her. _There's_ _nothing_ _you can do but wait_.

Wait? As in, do nothing for an extended period of time? What good would that do? The longer she waited, the more likely it was that something else terrible would happen, either to her or Malcolm, or both. But...it was also too soon for Brahms to be caught off guard. Though he acted meek and simple-minded in front of her (when they were alone, that was), she knew there was a storm of intricate thoughts and calculations and ill-intended manipulation going on inside his head, and that wasn't something to be trifled with so soon.

She shakily sighed, knowing that her gut was right.

She would wait.

She would stay up, wait until Brahms fell asleep, then get Malcolm and go.

Yes. That was what she would do.

Greta scooted over and propped her head against her dresser, huddling up in a little ball as she made to carry out her plan.

She would wait just until he fell asleep.

Just until he fell asleep...


	2. Rough Morning

**A/N: 06/29/2017**

 **TheFantasyRocker : I know, right! Like why aren't there more GretaxBrahms fics out there? Lol thanks for your review! I'm glad you like it so far :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _You appear even-tempered though your looks will deceive_

 _And the sparks are always flying 'cause you drink for relief_

 _With the heart of a child and the wit of a fool_

 _It's a wonder why I don't try to build a wall around you_

Half Moon Run – Full Circle~

* * *

Chapter two: Rough Morning~

* * *

Greta slowly opened her eyes, blinking herself awake.

The dull gray of morning shone through the windows of her room to greet her, and she tiredly grunted as she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh light. She stared at her surroundings, at the dressers and mirror and clothes haphazardly flung about the room, at her bed a few yards in front of her...

Her bed.

Why wasn't she _in_ her bed?

What was she doing slumped against one of her dressers-

She gasped, lurching into an upright position as the past night's events came rushing back to her.

Cole dying, the doll breaking, Brahms revealing himself, Malcolm lying unconscious in the wall cavity, crying herself to sleep...

 _Brahms_ , she thought.

A feeling of sick stillness bloomed in her stomach, traveling up her throat and filling her mouth with a stale taste. Eyes widening, she stood up and unlocked her door, making haste as she ran down the hall and into the bathroom. She threw open the door, not bothering to close it as she dove for the toilet.

She emptied the contents of her stomach almost violently, the muscles of her abdomen lurching painfully as she vomited. When it was over, she slumped against the toilet, body relaxing as she focused on normalizing her breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In...

She closed her eyes, the cool ceramic helping to calm her nerves.

She could have stayed in there forever, just lying by the toilet and pretending that nothing bad could happen to her as long as she hid in the bathroom. But she knew that she couldn't. Because Malcolm was still out there, and she had to save him. She had to do something to help him. She had to do _something_.

Nodding to give herself reassurance, Greta shakily stood up from the toilet. She looked down at her vomit, the sickly smell almost causing her to puke again. She wrinkled her nose and reached towards the lever to flush it down, but thought better of it; she didn't want to make any noise that would alert Brahms.

Lowering the toilet lid as quietly as she could, she cautiously walked to the open doorway and peeked out into the hall. Seeing that no one was there, she stepped out and made her way to Brahms' bedroom. She swallowed nervously as she rested her hand on the doorknob, almost feeling the need to run back to the bathroom again. She twisted it slowly to make as little noise as possible, and, preparing herself, cautiously opened the door and peeked inside.

She expected to see a masked man asleep in a child's bed, but what she saw was...

Nothing.

There was nobody there.

Greta opened the door the rest of the way, expecting to see Brahms sitting in the corner or possibly looking out the window, but he wasn't even in the room. Everything was put away in its place, nothing appeared to have been moved or messed with, and the bed was neatly made, as though no one had ever touched it.

Just as she was beginning to grind the gears in her brain as to where Brahms could have gone, a loud clanging rang up through the hall and into her ears, like that of pots and pans. She jumped, surprised at the sudden sound, and turned towards the end of the hallway. She walked down the multiple flights of stairs, careful not to make any noise as she did so, and quickly assessed that the source was coming from the kitchen. It must have been Brahms. It had to be. But what would he be doing there?

Ignoring her nausea, she gradually made her way down to the kitchen, idling by the doorway for a moment or two before turning the corner and peeking inside.

Brahms stood at the counter with his back to her, busying himself with...well, what _seemed_ to be-

 _Breakfast?_ She asked herself, stepping closer.

The thought shouldn't have struck her so odd, but the image of a mentally ill man pretending to be an eight-year-old boy making breakfast just...well, it just wasn't something she'd picture happening at all. Let alone right in front of her.

Strangely entranced by the scene before her, Greta took a few steps further into the kitchen, stopping just shy of the table. Brahms must have sensed her presence, because he abruptly stopped what he was doing (peeling fruit, from the looks of it) and slowly turned to face her.

A long bout of silence ensued once their eyes locked, and she steeled herself for whatever was about to happen. Surprisingly, the look he gave her wasn't malicious; if anything, it was surprise, pure and simple, and in that moment it was as if she wasn't staring at a psychotic killer, but at a young boy who had been caught trying to surprise his nanny with a healthy breakfast.

Greta's mouth fell open, trying to find words to break the awkwardness of the situation.

"Uh- um...I...I- I thought you were still in bed," she stuttered, failing miserably as she tried to smile and throw her thumb in the direction behind her. "I...went to wake you, but...you weren't there. Ha."

Brahms gave no form of response to her bumbling sentence, not so much as a grunt or even a blink. Instead, he looked hastily between her and the food he had been preparing on the counter, as though not quite sure what to do now that she was awake. He clearly hadn't planned on her being up so soon, and she hadn't planned on him being awake either. It was an awkward standstill they were in, but he didn't let it last long.

Without warning, Brahms dropped the knife he'd been using and swooped forward, crossing the distance between them in a single stride. Greta gasped and fearfully jumped back, adrenaline spiking as she prepared to defend herself.

However, Brahms never touched her; instead, he reached for the chair tucked into the head of the kitchen table beside her and pulled it out. He gestured to it like a gentleman would a lady and stepped back, clearly wanting her to sit down.

Deciding it would be easier to simply comply, she let herself relax and hesitantly stepped forward, eyes never leaving his as she cautiously took a seat. Once he was certain she would stay in her place, Brahms eagerly turned back to the counter and continued what he was doing, disposition downright happy as he picked up the knife and went back to peeling the fruit.

Greta tensely waited, impatiently tapping her finger on the table to try and calm her queasy stomach. She glanced back at the doorway where she had come in, thinking of Malcolm. She hoped Brahms hadn't done anything to him. She wondered if he was still passed out in the wall cavity, or if he had been moved at some point in the early morning to another location.

 _Maybe he woke up and went to get help,_ she thought hopefully _._

But one look at the back of the man in the kitchen with her, and she knew better than to believe the comforting lie she'd just told herself.

Of course Brahms wouldn't take that chance. He was smarter than that. Surely he would have moved him by now. Someplace she wouldn't know about or be able to get to. Still, she had to be sure.

 _I'll check when the time is right_ , she decided. _I need to know if Malcolm is still here. And if he is, I'm getting us out of here_.

The sound of ceramic scraping against polished wood yanked her from her thoughts, and she saw that Brahms was done preparing the food. He walked over and set the plate down in front of her, and she stared speechlessly at the meal he had fixed for her as he moved to sit in the next empty seat over.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich sat on her plate, complete with a glass of orange juice and a side of fruit.

Her favorite.

 _What if it's poisoned?_ Her mind warned. _What if he put something in there to make you pass out? Or die?!_

She bit her bottom lip, thinking it over.

 _...No,_ she decided. _If he was going to poison me he would have done it the first time. I think this is just a show of good will._

Turning her head ever so slightly, she chanced a look at Brahms; he seemed a bit nervous, as though he was afraid she wouldn't like what he had made for her, but other than that, he exhibited no behavioral signs that would indicate he had done something dastardly to her food. Of course, then again, she was no expert where psychopathic man-children were concerned.

It was probably safe, she reasoned. After all, if he wanted her dead, she would be lying in that crawlspace along with Malcolm right now, not sitting in the kitchen with a plate of perfectly good food in front of her.

She shifted slightly in her seat, waves of nausea rolling through her stomach despite her protests. She really didn't feel like eating. Hell, she didn't even trust herself enough to _move_ without wanting to barf. But Brahms had made this specially for her, and she wasn't stupid enough to even think of declining such a 'generous' gift. She had to do this.

Taking hold of the edges of her plate and pulling it closer, Greta picked up the sandwich.

She slowly raised it to her lips, discreetly sniffing it just to be sure there was nothing 'off' about it, and cautiously took a bite.

It tasted perfectly normal.

No odd crunches or foreign objects or weird aftertastes.

It was just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Reluctance gone, she swallowed and took another bite, chewing without worry. She was hungry – _so_ very hungry - but the lingering nausea in her stomach prevented her from eating at a regular pace. She was so focused on keeping her food _inside_ her mouth that she didn't notice Brahms staring at her for the longest time, and when she finally did, she was already working on her peeled fruit. He watched her intently the entire time she ate, as though mesmerized, and she quickly worked to finish the rest of her food to escape that discomforting stare.

When her plate was clean and her glass was empty, Greta slowly stood up from the table and picked up her dishes, intent on walking over to the sink to wash them and put them away.

She turned on the tap and grabbed a rag, wetting it down with warm water and squirting a bit of dish soap onto it. She started on the plate first, setting the glass down in the sink for later, and watched disinterestedly as a fair amount of suds began to form as she scrubbed. She almost felt like laughing at the silliness of it; she never thought she'd feel so eager to do the dishes.

The sound of Brahms sliding out of his chair reached her ears like nails on a chalkboard, loud and ominous, and she froze in place as he rounded the table and made his way over to her. Her mind went spiraling; had she done something wrong? Was she not supposed to get up yet? Had she broken a rule?

He came to stand at her right, his silence only causing her to become even more frightened. She turned her head as slowly as possible, trying to be discreet. She stared at the bare feet of the man towering over her, too afraid to meet his eyes, and prepared herself for whatever was about to happen.

Brahms reached over and she shut her eyes, steeling herself for pain-

But nothing came.

Greta cracked open her eyes when she felt a tug on the plate she was holding, and she stared in disbelief as Brahms wordlessly took it from her hands, fingers brushing gently against her own as he dragged it into the other half of the sink and began to rinse it off.

She stared at his porcelain face, shocked at his want to assist her, and had to blink several times to make sure she wasn't just having some vivid, twisted dream. She wasn't sure what she had initially expected – being hit, kicked, having her head smashed into the counter, maybe – but it certainly wasn't help. When Brahms didn't pay any mind to her momentary lack of movement, she gradually resumed her task, grabbing the cup she had been using and scrubbing it down with the soapy rag.

They worked silently together as they cleaned, with her washing and him rinsing and drying off, and though there were only two dishes to speak of that needed washed, it felt as though it took an eternity to get it done.

Greta tried not to worry herself with thoughts of confusion and ulterior motives on Brahms' part, but it could hardly be helped. It was frustrating not knowing what was going on inside his head. He could just as easily be thinking of how he was going to kill her as he could what book he wanted to read. She had almost no connection with him whatsoever due to the fact that she was perfectly sane and he, clearly, was not, and therefore she had no way of predicting his next move.

Greta pursed her lips and grit her teeth, trying to hide her irritation with herself as she passed Brahms the glass cup.

 _No,_ her conscience reasoned. _You_ do _know what he's thinking. You may have been spending the last month with a doll, but Brahms has always been there. You know what he likes and what he doesn't like. You know what he'll do if his rules are broken, or if someone threatens the attention you give him. You_ know _him. And you know that he won't hurt you as long as you follow the rules_.

She mentally nodded to herself as she watched Brahms run the cup under the faucet, significantly more at ease with the facts her mind presented her.

Brahms dried off the glass and set it inside one of the cupboards, reaching the top-most shelf with ease thanks to his height, and Greta tried her best to swallow down the nervousness she felt and put on a happy face as he turned back to her. As long as she followed the rules, she would be just fine.

"Thank you, Brahms," she said, smile faltering as she struggled to keep eye contact. "I appreciate your help."

Brahms looked down almost bashfully, bowing his head a moment before meeting her gaze again, and in that moment Greta swore she was standing in front of a timid schoolboy. She cleared her throat, eager to move past the awkward thought.

"Aherm, so...I guess I should...um...clean the traps out now."

She moved to pass him, eager for solitude, but he sidestepped her, causing her to gasp when his fingers wrapped around her wrist. She locked gazes with him, shocked at the amount of distrust in his eyes as he stared down at her. Thin trails of dish water dripped down his hands and onto her skin, forming pools at the edges of her fingertips and falling onto the floor. Three drops had passed by the time she thought of something to say.

"I won't be gone long, Brahms," she said, trying to comfort him. "I'll come back. I promise."

There's nowhere else for me to go, she thought to herself. Not without Malcolm.

Brahms' hold on her didn't loosen in the least, though his eyes had softened considerably. Still, that wasn't enough for her.

"...Rules are rules," she reminded him, appealing to whatever voice of reason existed inside his mind. "You don't really want _rats_ to get into the house, do you?"

Brahms looked down, momentarily breaking his gaze as he considered her words. She was right, of course, even if he didn't want her to be. Brahms didn't like animals, Mr. Heelshire had told her so. And if he really didn't want her to leave the house, he shouldn't have made a rule that necessitated it.

Searching for a quicker way out, Greta quickly thought of a compromise.

"You can come with me if you want," she said, and his head jerked up in surprise. "Come on. Some fresh air'll do you good."

She carefully stepped past him and pulled him with her, inclining her head towards the back entrance of the kitchen.

Brahms halted her, rooting himself in his spot as he thought it over. She waited with baited breath as he turned the cogs in his brain, weighing the pros and cons and the overall likeliness of her invitation being a trap of some kind, and she desperately hoped that he wouldn't find anything wrong with her proposal.

She let out a relieved sigh when he finally nodded his consent, and she forced a smile as she gently tugged him towards the door.

* * *

He watched in silence as she cleared out the traps, standing beneath the overhang while she dumped the rats into the garbage bag she held and reset the wooden contraptions for further use.

She couldn't help but think of Mr. Heelshire while she worked, of what he had said to her the day she'd first arrived for her job and of how she would never see him again. Though she would like to believe otherwise, the letter they'd sent had been very clear; Brahms' parents weren't coming back.

She wanted to feel bitter or hateful towards them for leaving she and Malcolm (and even Cole) to deal with their mentally ill son, but simply couldn't find it in herself to do so. She could only imagine what they had gone through over the past twenty years, living in fear of their own child and caring for a lifeless doll. She didn't blame them for wanting a way out. Even if that way was leaving her behind.

Greta finished her task and tied off the garbage bag, turning around to head back to the kitchen and throw it away. Brahms looked at her and she fearfully smiled, willing away her emotions to better focus on the present. Rules; follow. Malcolm; rescue. Her; leave.

She began her short trek back to the house, repeating those six words like a mantra in her mind, and Brahms wordlessly followed, not far behind.


	3. The Rules

**A/N: 07/13/2017 Phew, I'm back!**

 **Reader101 : Aww thank you! Here's another chapter for you :)**

 **TheFantasyRocker : I know, right?! Like it is SO hard to find BrahmsxGreta fics! Anyway I'm glad you're liking it so far! Hope you enjoy this next chapter as well :P**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _I'm the boy with the ironed shirt_

 _I'm the boy who watches you work_

 _I'm the boy who's calling your house_

 _I'm the boy who's freaking you out_

Passenger – Night Vision Binoculars~

* * *

Chapter three: The Rules~

* * *

Greta continued with her plan of following the rules.

She took Brahms to the reading room, as she would normally do after eating breakfast and cleaning the traps, and moved to their usual places by the piano. She pulled out one of the chairs for him to sit down, waiting anxiously but expectantly. It was so hard not to glance at the broken shutters leading into the wall cavity, where she and Malcolm had almost escaped.

 _Almost_ , her mind emphasized.

Brahms ignored her invitation to sit, taking one look at the seat presented to him and walking right past it, as uninterested as a baby with a boring toy. Greta, shocked, stood rooted in her spot, watching as he walked clear to the other side of the room and sat down on the couch.

She looked down at the rickety wooden chair she was still holding, slightly offended by his refusal to sit but also understanding; neither chairs were comfortable to sit in for long periods of time (or even short periods, for that matter), and she had a feeling that Brahms would be especially uncomfortable due to his large size. It would be a wonder if they could get through a single reading session without the legs of the chair buckling from underneath him.

Setting the chair aside, Greta stepped towards the bookshelf and skimmed the various titles. She came across the one she had been reading to the doll-Brahms, before everything had gone to hell. If she remembered correctly, they were a little more than halfway through.

Figuring Brahms would most likely want to finish it, she grabbed the book and turned around, moving past the piano to join him on the couch. She noticed that he had strategically placed himself in the middle of the sofa, assuring she would be the same distance from him no matter where she sat.

Brahms rested his hand on the cushion to his left, and Greta took the hint. She cautiously sat down, her entire right side burning due to his body being so close to hers, and feebly attempted to make herself comfortable.

She opened up the book and began skimming the pages, searching for the chapter they had left off on. She found the desired page all too soon, and took the liberty of stalling for as long as possible before she actually had to read out loud.

It wasn't that she wasn't confident in her speaking abilities, or that she was embarrassed. It was just that she really, really didn't want to. The queasiness in her stomach had more or less subsided, but she still felt sick at the thought of playing nice and reading a book to a grown man, especially when that grown man was Brahms. Still, she would have to do it sooner or later, and it would be best for the both of them to just get it over with as soon as possible.

After a solid minute of silence, Greta focused her eyes on the first sentence of the page, finally opening her mouth to read.

Just as she made to speak, however, Brahms once again shocked her into silence; he bent down and grabbed hold of her ankles, pulling them up onto the couch and twisting her around so she was facing him. He then slid his hands up her calves, resting them atop her knees. His eyes locked with hers as he gently pried them apart, being deliberately slow as though he didn't want to startle her. It was too late for that, of course, but her mind greatly appreciated being given the time to absorb and predict his movements.

Greta stared with wide eyes as she watched Brahms twist around on the couch, turning until his back was to her, and she remained stock-still when he began to lower himself onto her. He leaned back until his head was resting against her chest, and every muscle in her body went painfully rigid as he relaxed against her. Panic shot through her, and she felt as lost and helpless as a rabbit in a trap.

Brahms crossed his hands against his chest and sighed, seemingly satisfied with their new positions. Seconds went by, and she decided that he must have been waiting for her to read.

Though his weight wasn't crushing, Greta felt as though she were suffocating, becoming inescapably engulfed until all she knew was him. She could see him, feel him, smell him, hear him...she could almost taste him, even. He took up all of her senses, and it took all of her concentration to keep her mind afloat in the midst of it all. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, trying to come down from the miniature panic attack she was having.

Brahms seemed to grow conscious of the effect he was having on her, because he brought his left hand to rest on the outside of her thigh, stroking her jeans with his thumb. She was sure it was meant to be a comforting gesture, but it hardly helped; if anything, it only made her feel worse. But he was being patient with her, she'd give him that. And given the circumstances, it was all she could ask for.

After a couple of minutes her panic subsided, and Greta was ready to once again try and read the book. She held it up so she could see, arms wrapping around Brahms as she did so, and stared at the first word on the page.

Her back rested uncomfortably against the armrest and her right leg was crushed between him and the back of the couch, but she didn't dare voice her discomfort. For all she knew, this was some strange fantasy he'd been dreaming of playing out with her, and she knew better than to express disapproval at something so (seemingly) innocent. She reminded herself that it could be much worse.

Clearing her throat, she began to read.

* * *

It felt like a lifetime before it was over, but somehow she was able to make it through an hour-and-a-half's worth of reading.

Though she had been dreadful of it at first, Greta found herself actually enjoying the book, even losing herself completely in it from time to time. Which, given her situation, was more than welcome. Brahms had been quiet as a mouse, too, not moving so much as a centimeter the entire time she read. Which was, again, more than welcome. She couldn't imagine a better way of things playing out.

Greta lowered the book and cleared her throat, pleased with herself for surviving a little longer. Brahms sighed, long and loud, and she had to fight the urge to follow suit. Reading aloud really was a tiresome thing. She couldn't imagine being a popular author or writer and having to do book tours and live readings. She cringed at the thought.

She set the book on the floor as Brahms began to stretch, and she bit her lip to keep from groaning in pain as his shifting weight jostled her bladder. She'd had to use the bathroom almost since they started reading, but she had kept her mouth shut because – at the time – she didn't have to go that bad. Now, however, as Brahms' weight pressed uncomfortably down on her, she was forced to acknowledge the direness of her situation.

Clearing her throat, Greta took a moment to sweeten her voice. "Brahms, you have to get up now. We're done."

There was a long, drawn out moment of silence, and she could tell that she had struck a nerve, no matter how small. Ultimately, however, she was met with compliance. Brahms slowly raised himself off of her (though with clear reluctance), and Greta immediately felt the pressure disappear from her bladder. She sat up, relishing the relief.

She watched as Brahms stood up from the couch, eyes widening when she realized that he was making his way towards the record player.

Oh no. She was _not_ going to sit down for another hour, especially not for opera music.

She moved to get off the couch, eager to stop him- "Brahms, no!" -but quickly regretted her decision.

As she stood up, she put all of her weight onto her right foot, which had gone numb during the first half-hour of reading, and fell flat onto her face.

She cursed inwardly, deeply annoyed with her own stupidity.

She felt Brahms' pounding footsteps beneath her hands as she pushed herself up, and panic shot through her when he kneeled at her side and grabbed hold of her wrist. The feeling came and went as quickly as a bolt of lightning once she realized he was only trying to help her up, but unfortunately she couldn't accept his assistance; the millions of tiny pins and needles working their way through her leg weren't going to allow her to stand for at least another minute.

She stretched her hand past his hold and gave Brahms' wrist a meaningful squeeze to let him know that she couldn't get up yet, and he stayed dutifully by her side as she tried not to laugh from the overwhelmingly tingly feeling in her calve.

She squinted in puzzlement when he tilted her arm carefully and cocked his head from side to side, worriedly looking her over. It took her a moment to realize that he was searching for injuries, and a look of realization passed over her face as she hurried to reassure him.

"Oh...no, Brahms, I'm not hurt. It's just...my leg went numb. From when we were reading? I'm okay, really."

Brahms finally met her gaze, and the amount of worry in his eyes was staggering. She would never have expected such affection and care to come from someone as twisted as him, and yet she could feel it practically radiating off of him, beating against her subconscious like waves on a rocky shore. She almost had to look away from the sight.

"Um...hey." She said, getting his attention. "I really have to go to the bathroom. Do you think you could help me up the stairs? I'd really appreciate it."

Seemingly eager at the prospect of being useful, Brahms quickly nodded. She began to smile in return but stopped short when, instead of merely grabbing hold of her hand and heaving her to her feet, he engulfed her in his arms and scooped her up. He swept her off the floor with ease, and she let out a tiny squeak as he rose to his full height.

She felt as though she were hanging off the edge of a cliff being so high in the air, and she subconsciously gripped the fabric of Brahms' shirt in her hands as she peered down at the floor; if he dropped her, it would be a long way down.

Slightly adjusting his hold on her, Brahms proceeded to carry her out of the room and up the menacingly tall flights of stairs to the bathroom.

By the time he put her down, the feeling had returned to her leg, and she muttered a quick thank-you as she hurried to lock herself in the restroom and do her business.

She barely noticed the stench of her puke from earlier that morning as she undid the clasp around her pants and sat down, reveling in the peaceful quiet the tiled floors and walls provided her.

Happy that she finally had some time to herself, she decided to think.

Her plan was simple enough; just play along with Brahms' rules until he let his guard down, and then grab Malcolm and go. But how would she do that, exactly? She could hardly get Brahms to leave her alone long enough to use the bathroom, let alone creep through the wall cavities and see if Malcolm was still alive.

She might have felt a bit better about the whole thing if she just knew what Brahms was thinking. He was just so unpredictable, so hard to read. She couldn't grasp the idea of someone being so violently murderous one moment and then mildly gentle the next. And though he had protected her from Cole, there was no excuse for his behavior when it came to Malcolm. He had been nothing but kind to them (well, to she and the doll Brahms, at least) and though he had tried multiple times to get her to break the rules (succeeding on more than one occasion) he was still a good person. There was no need to hurt him like that.

 _Malcolm beat him over the head with a_ fire _poker,_ her conscience reminded her _._

 _Yeah, because he was dragging me off to God knows where_ , she thought back.

 _He basically tried to kill Brahms_ , Her mind countered. _Of course he wouldn't be feeling friendly towards him after he practically betrayed him like that_.

Well, her brain had a point there. Malcolm had known Brahms – in a sense, anyway – much longer and much better than she ever had, and she could only imagine having someone she knew and trusted come running at her with a hatchet (or in his case, fire poker). And as much as she didn't want to admit it, she supposed she might have reacted the same way as he did if someone had tried to kill her and take away the one human being she had any hope of having contact with...

 _Dammit,_ she thought _. This isn't helping. I'm supposed to be coming up with a plan to rescue Malcolm and get the hell out of here, not finding reasons to sympathize with a psychopath!_

Greta pursed her lips and grit her teeth, trying to hide her irritation with herself as she flushed the toilet and dried her hands off on a nearby towel.

 _Okay, think,_ she told herself _. If what you just thought is true – if Brahms only hurt Cole and Malcolm because they had hurt him – then it's fairly safe to assume that you've got nothing to be afraid of, right? You haven't tried to hurt him yet. You've done nothing wrong that would cause you to lose his trust. Use that to your advantage._

She nodded to herself as she put the towel back in its place.

Yes. That was what she would do. She would use his blind trust in her to further her plans of escape.

It was underhanded and manipulative, but it was no worse than anything Brahms had done himself. All she had to do was follow the rules and pretend that everything was fine, and when the moment was right, she would take Malcolm and leave.

Greta looked at herself in the mirror, trying to put on a brave face before she had to face her captor again.

She didn't want to leave her little haven (after all, it was the one place she could be alone and think properly in this Godforsaken house) but if she took too long, Brahms would grow suspicious. And the last thing she wanted was for him to doubt her. She took a breath, calmed herself, and turned towards the door.

Brahms was waiting for her just outside, just as she knew he'd be, and she smiled as brightly and happily as possible when their eyes met.

She led him back down to the reading room and sat on the couch, watching as he made his way over to the music player. His fingers skimmed the various records on the shelf until he found the one he wanted, and Greta watched as he put it on the spindle.

Her ears pricked as the needle met the record, and she readied herself.

It was time for yet another endless hour of music appreciation.


	4. Where's Malcolm?

**A/N: 08/06/2017 I hope this chapter turned out alright, I already posted it on Wattpad and didn't feel like going over it again, save for italisizing everything I remembered needing it (I hope I got everything).**

 **PoisonedParadise : ****Hey thanks a lot! I'm glad you get a kick out of Brahms' behavior, lol :)**

 **Encredetenebre : Merci beaucoup pour votre avis! Je suis content que vous aimiez cette histoire assez pour la lire dans une autre langue! J'espère que vous appréciez ce chapitre :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _She may contain the urge to run away_

 _But hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks_

 _Cetirizine, your fever's gripped me again_

 _Never kisses, all you ever send are full stops_

Alt-J – Breezeblocks~

* * *

Chapter Four: Where's Malcolm?~

* * *

With great care and even greater caution, she made it through the rest of the day.

She allowed no guests, she never left Brahms alone, she saved meals in the freezer. She followed the rules. And so far, it had paid off in spades. The sick feeling in her stomach had gradually subsided toward the later half of the day, but feeling a little queasy was far more preferable to leaning over the toilet for twelve hours. At least, that was what she told herself.

It was nighttime now, and although she felt a sense of accomplishment at making it through the day, she also didn't allow herself to let that feeling grow. There were still two more rules to follow, and she wasn't out of the woods yet.

Greta finished turning out all the lights, walking to the foyer and taking out a box of matches from the table by the stairs. She lit a nearby candle, noting how Brahms was significantly more attentive to her actions. Every little move she made, he followed like a hawk. She didn't blame him (after all, if she were a psychotic killer bent on keeping her nanny locked away for the rest of her life, she wouldn't trust her when nightfall came either) but it still made her unbearably uncomfortable.

He silently followed as she ascended the staircase, lighting candles as she went so she wouldn't trip and fall to her death later in the night. The fifth rule echoed through her head.

5\. Read a Bedtime Story.

Since she planned on waiting until Brahms was asleep to go find Malcolm (granted, that plan had already failed, but she wasn't going to give up on it just yet) it was absolutely necessary that she follow this particular rule. And though she wasn't too keen on sharing an elaborate bedtime story with the likes of someone like Brahms, she wasn't about to risk her or Malcolm's safety over something more pride-based than anything else. It was something she simply couldn't fail. Which led to the tenth and final rule; Kiss Goodnight.

Memories of the night before flooded her mind, and she blushed to hide her shame.

Of all the rules Mrs Heelshire had given her, this one was by far the most difficult for her to follow through with. It had merely seemed stupid and embarrassing when it was just her and the doll, but with the real Brahms, it was so much more than that. It was frightening, humiliating, awkward...it just wasn't a pleasant experience, in any way whatsoever. At least when she had been kissing the doll goodnight there had been some semblance of normalcy, some comforting thought that she was giving a young child's soul some form of rest.

They finally reached Brahms' bedroom door, and Greta mentally prepared herself as she took her time opening it.

She flicked the lights on and blew out the candle she held, setting it down on Brahms' dresser as they stepped into the room. She walked over and pulled back the covers, waiting for him to climb into bed so she could tuck him in.

But he never moved to do so.

She waited, and waited, and still nothing came. No sound, no movement...nothing. Beginning to fear the worst, Greta slowly turned around, masking her caution with confusion as Brahms' figure spun into view.

He was much closer than expected, and it may have just been her fear talking, but he seemed taller and larger, too, far more intimidating than he had been just a few moments ago.

Greta's mouth fell open in surprise, taking the smallest of steps back. Brahms was breathing heavily, shoulders heaving as he stared at her. His eyes flickered from her face to the rest of her body - her hair, shoulders, chest, arms, legs - and she had never felt so trapped. It was like he was trying to hold himself back from something, but he wasn't quite succeeding. His fists were clenched, she noticed, and she truly hoped that he wasn't about to hurt her.

Her mind whirled - _had she done something wrong? Had she upset him somehow ? Had she not followed the rules?_ \- but ultimately drew a blank as she tried to come up with a rational reason for his behavior.

Not knowing what else to do, she timidly whispered, "Brahms?"

His eyes snapped back to hers, his breath cutting short as he paused to look at her. He seemed as though he had only just realized that she was even there, which was more than enough to make her feel immediately disturbed. Her own breathing had ceased as a result, and a terrifying moment of silence passed between them.

Greta fearfully swallowed, body tense as a spring as she waited for something to happen. The look in Brahms' eyes slowly changed; he seemed to have come to some sort of decision, though she was hardly skilled enough in psychology to make such a judgment, let alone accurately. She seemed to be right, however, because he slowly lifted a hand, resting his palm flat on her chest. At first she was confused by this, but confusion quickly made way for fear as he gave a firm push, and before she knew it she was falling backwards onto the bed.

Terror seized her, a million thoughts flying through her head about what was going to happen, and she wasted no time as she scrambled to get away. She tried to create a healthy distance between them, but it was too late; the bed dipped at her left leg, then her right as Brahms dug his knees into the mattress. He leaned down, arms snaking down until his elbows were resting beside her head as he came to tower above her, trapping her there like a scared animal.

Greta stared up at him with wide eyes as he looked down admiringly at her, gaze sweeping over her face with artificial affection before shifting his interest elsewhere. She gasped as he craned his neck to nuzzle her jawline, arms curling around her head and fingers twisting through her hair. A shiver shot down her spine as the chill of his porcelain mask made contact with her skin. She whimpered, tears beginning to spring in her eyes.

She had never been so aware of Brahms' size as she was now; he was just so big. She didn't even remember Cole feeling so large in frame as Brahms did above her now. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, such a stark contrast to how cold she herself felt, and she tried desperately to control her breathing; her heart rate was completely wild, like that of a rabbit's, and she feared if she didn't calm down soon she would start hyperventilating.

Brahms inhaled deeply, fisting a hand in her hair and pulling her head back as he pressed his face further into her neck. He exhaled, hot breath fanning across her skin as he shifted on top of her. He untangled his right hand from her hair and moved to slip it beneath her shirt, snaking up her back and resting his palm flat between her shoulder blades. Greta shrank further into the bed as he held her close, shivering despite the heat between them.

She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself.

 _He won't hurt you, he won't hurt you, he won't hurt you..._

Brahms' breathing increased, and she could feel his shoulders heaving against her as he moved down towards her collarbone and chest. Panic flared inside her, and she couldn't help it as her own breathing sped up. Unfortunately, this only seemed to spur him on even more, and he hastened his movements.

She squeezed her eyes further shut as the pads of his fingers slid down the back of her neck, skating along her jugular and past her chest before stopping at her stomach. The hand on her back slipped beneath her bra to rest against her spine, and she arched her back in discomfort as a shiver ran through her. Fearful tears slipped down past her cheekbones and into her ears as she lay there, and she opened her eyes to stare up at the ceiling, praying for it all to just stop.

She tearfully pleaded, "Brahms, please..." But her cries were paid no mind.

Brahms flipped back the material of her shirt, and Greta closed her eyes once more as his hand eagerly skated up her stomach-

He inhaled sharply, causing Greta to open her eyes; he had stopped his movements, frozen as he stared down at where his hand lay beneath her shirt. Confused but happy that he was distracted, Greta let out a relieved breath as he abandoned his ministrations, pulling his right hand out from under her back and moving to push her shirt further up. She felt as though she could finally breathe again as he moved off of her to get a better view of her stomach, and she felt so relieved that she hardly cared what he found so fascinating.

It wasn't until she felt his fingers repeatedly brushing against a certain spot on her stomach that she realized what it was that had so fiercely caught his attention.

"They're...they're stretch marks," she told him, keeping her voice down to a whisper as she stared down at him.

Brahms looked up at her, hand still on one of the marks, curiosity and confusion in his eyes.

"I got them when I was pregnant," she explained. "Back when Cole..."

His gaze immediately hardened at the mention of Cole, and Greta purposely trailed off so as not to upset him further. He turned his attention back to the marks shortly after, and she let herself calm down a bit as he brushed his hands over them, examining them. Her breathing had just begun to return to normal when she felt a cold pressure on her belly, and she gasped as she looked down to see that Brahms was pressing his face into her skin.

At first she was confused, but then she realized that he was kissing the marks. Trying to make the scars left by Cole feel better. Make them go away. Fix them. She watched in silent awe as he moved from mark to mark, taking his time as he went. It was the gentlest she'd ever seen him, and in all honesty it shocked her. She never imagined she'd see him so compassionate. Maybe he really did care about her wellbeing.

 _What is wrong with you?!_ Her mind screamed _. Of course he doesn't care! Are you so desperate for intimacy that you've forgotten what he was trying to do just a few seconds ago? He can't care. He's a cruel and twisted human being. He isn't capable of things like love or compassion. He's a monster. And if you want to get out of this alive, you need to remember that._

Angry with herself for being so foolish, Greta looked away from Brahms and rested her head back against the mattress, staring holes into the ceiling as she waited for him to finish what he was doing. She felt the cold porcelain of his mask glide across her skin, trying her hardest not to feel anything other than anger and disgust towards him. Malcolm was probably lying in a ditch somewhere and she was busy being given butterfly kisses from his killer. What on earth was wrong with her?

Brahms eventually slowed to a halt, and Greta looked down at him, putting on her best smile as she said, "Thank you, Brahms. I feel much better now."

She lifted a hand to run her fingers through his hair, and he automatically closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. He began to crawl back up to her level, no doubt wanting to continue what he'd been doing before he'd discovered her stretch marks, and, feeling a sense of panic, she quickly thought of something to stop things from going any further.

"It's time for bed, Brahms."

Unfortunately, her command came out sounding more like a fearful whimper, and Brahms hardly paid her any mind as he trailed his porcelain nose up the side of her neck.

She gripped the fabric of his cardigan, bunching it around his shoulders as she tried to sound more authoritative. "Brahms, it's time for bed."

This time, he seemed to deliberately ignore her, pressing himself further against her in response to her words.

Deciding she wasn't going to let things escalate any further, Greta gripped the edges of his shoulders and pushed him off of her, hoping that her gaze would be enough to get him to stop.

"Brahms," she said again, dead serious. "It's time for bed."

She fully realized that he was allowing her to hold him above her - after all, there was no way she would be strong enough to uphold his weight otherwise - and she hoped that this tiny allowance was enough to make him listen to her.

Brahms clearly didn't want to go to bed, she could tell that much from the look in his eyes. But he also knew that he had to follow the rules. They both did. And so, he slowly climbed off of her, pulling her along with him as he stood up.

She inwardly sighed in relief as he climbed beneath the covers she had laid out for him, and she quickly moved to tuck him in. He stared her down the entire time, and she was sure to avoid eye contact, not wanting to feel any more uncomfortable than she already was.

She pulled up a nearby chair to sit down, preparing herself to tell a bedtime story. She sat there awkwardly, clearing her throat to try and buy some time, hoping that maybe Brahms wouldn't want a bedtime story, but he did nothing to make her believe that was the case. He stared at her patiently, intently, and she knew there was nothing else to do but go through with it. Closing her eyes a moment and taking a breath, Greta began her story.

"Once upon a time..."

* * *

Greta turned out the lights and slowly closed the door, trying her best not to wake Brahms as she stepped out into the hallway.

She crept downstairs to the pool room, thankful for the candles she had lit earlier as she moved. She had avoided that room since everything had happened, ever since Cole had died and Malcolm had been...well. She wasn't going to think about that.

Greta warily entered the room, immediately being hit with the sense that she shouldn't be there. She knew it was probably just a combination of nerves and paranoia, but it still made her feel extremely uncomfortable.

 _This is bad. We shouldn't be here. Brahms could come around the corner any second-_

 _Oh, shut up,_ she thought back, stepping further inside _. I'm just going to see if Cole's body is still there._

 _And if it isn't?_

She paused, thinking it over. _If it isn't, then I'll know Malcolm probably isn't where he was left either._

She carefully stepped around the pool table, trying not to step on any glass or porcelain. She finally rounded the obstacle, slowly coming face to face with-

Nothing?

Greta squinted in the limited light, trying to make out a figure or object-

But there was still nothing. The mirror was still broken, there were still blood patches on the floor and broken furniture and remnants of the doll, but no body of any kind.

Cole was missing.

And that could only mean that Malcolm was too.

Hurrying to the reading room, she stepped carefully past the broken shutters and slipped into the wall cavity, trying to be as quiet as possible as she made her way to the spot where she and Malcolm had been just the night before. She couldn't see for anything, and she treaded very carefully, arms extended towards each wall, fingers just barely brushing against the moldy concrete so she could tell where she was going. Eventually, she could see a sliver of moonlight splayed across the floor, and she knew that it must have been a light leak from the trapdoor she hadn't been able to get open.

Adrenaline rushing, Greta hurried to the spot, crouching down and feeling the ground for Malcolm. Her hands brushed against a skinny metal object, and she realized a little too late that it was the fire poker Brahms had used to beat him with. It skidded a ways across the floor and she started, covering her mouth as her gasp echoed throughout the cavity. Her heart froze in her chest, waiting to hear footsteps pounding toward her. But she waited, and nothing came.

That bedtime story must have really been a good one.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Greta continued to search, only giving up when she had practically molested every inch of the ground.

 _He's not here_ , she thought forlornly. _What do I do now?_

 _There's nothing you can do_ , her mind told her. _You'll just have to wait until you find another lead_.

Greta laid her hands in her lap, looking down into the darkness. Brahms could have hidden him anywhere within the house. And with all those trap doors and secret passages...

Tears slipped past her cheeks, and she silently cried, suddenly feeling less than optimistic.


	5. The Visitors

**A/N: 09/15/2017**

 **ninikuku : You got it! Here it is! :)**

 **Linz : Omg I'm SO happy you got to see The Boy a couple nights ago! lol I do the same thing every time I watch a good movie, immediately go to ff to see if there are any good fics XD I'm glad you think mine is worthy! Here's another chapter for you! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _I will keep quiet, you won't even know I'm here_

 _You won't suspect a thing, you won't see me in the mirror_

 _But I've crept into your heart, you can't make me disappear_

 _'Til I make you_

Digital Daggers - The Devil Within~

* * *

Chapter five: The Visitors~

* * *

Greta slowly awoke the next morning, not feeling the least bit refreshed.

Last night had proven to be quite disheartening, and she felt as though all hope was lost.

 _Don't be silly,_ her mind told her. _It's just a hiccup, nothing more. We can still get out of this._

Willing herself to get out of bed, Greta rolled over and sat up, her bare feet hitting the floor. She had slept in her clothes, too afraid to change into something more comfortable lest she be watched from behind the walls. Brahms may have been asleep when she left him, but that didn't mean he had stayed that way for the remainder of the night.

She slowly made her way to the bedroom door, unlocking it and (reluctantly) stepping out into the hall. She noticed that Brahms' door was left open a crack, and, being unable to remember if she had been the one responsible for it, stepped closer to peek inside.

She expected to find the room empty, as she had the past two mornings, but instead found the bed to be occupied. Brahms lay sprawled out on the mattress, his massive frame covering nearly every inch of it. His arm and foot hung off the edges at funny angles, body posed as though he had been tossing and turning to get into a comfortable position. It was a sight that would have been endearing if it weren't for the fact that she was staring at a psychotic killer.

Greta felt the tiniest of relieved smiles begin to creep onto her face, until she realized; she had to wake him up. Though it wasn't part of the official rules, Mrs. Heelshire had specifically told her to wake Brahms up every morning at 7am. The old woman's voice echoed through her head, and she quietly cursed the memory. Taking a breath, she pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside - she didn't want to wake Brahms, but she knew that if she didn't, there may very well be a price to pay, of which she wasn't willing.

She felt as though she were crossing the threshold into Hell, and she couldn't help but think of just how helpless she would be if trouble arose. However, Greta pushed past this, and slowly, painstakingly inched her way over to Brahms. She rounded the bed to stand in front of him, relaxing once she realized he really was asleep and not just faking it to get her within touching distance.

She looked down at him, at his porcelain face angled up at her, and noted how much less threatening he was when sleeping. Though his size was still hulking compared to the average man, he was far more relaxed and much less intimidating in this state. She dare say he even looked innocent.

 _Alright, stop gawking,_ she told herself. _It's time to wake him up._

Steeling herself, Greta awkwardly placed her hands on his shoulders, hesitantly shaking him.

"Brahms, wake up."

She paused to see if he would respond, and when he didn't, she shook him some more and raised her voice a bit.

"Brahms, wake up. It's time for breakfast."

She pressed her palms into his chest, attempting to jostle him awake.

"Brahms, get up. It's time to wake up now."

She was about to resort to shoving him when Brahms' eyes flickered open beneath his mask, and she halted her movements as she realized he was awake. He stared up at her once his eyes focused, and she swore he looked both surprised and confused to see her.

"Brahms, it's time to get up now," she said, faltering a bit as she smiled.

Brahms blinked a few times, seeming to process what she'd just said, before tiredly reaching out his arms to stretch. He stopped and looked down when he felt pressure on his chest, and it was then that Greta realized she still had her hands resting on top of him. Embarrassed, she tried to yank them away, but Brahms grabbed onto her right hand and held it in place over his heart. Her mouth fell open in shock when she felt how fast it was beating.

She felt her throat run dry as they stared at each other, and for the longest moment neither of them moved a muscle. Eventually, though, Brahms' grip loosened and Greta's hand fell away, and she awkwardly cleared her throat as he began to sit up.

"Ahem, I, um...I better...go make breakfast."

Brahms said nothing in response to her words, and she quickly fled to the safety of the kitchen.

She had a feeling this was going to be a long day.

* * *

The next thirty minutes were spent preparing food for Brahms and herself, navigating the kitchen while trying to avoid the gaze of the masked man sitting at the table.

 _Okay_ , she told herself. _You can do this._

Greta closed her eyes and took a breath, taking hold of each plate on the counter before turning around to face her captor. She smiled as best she could, walking to the table and setting Brahms' food down in front of him before doing the same for herself and taking a seat.

A hundred thoughts ran through her head. How was this going to work? Would Brahms take off his mask and eat as a normal person would? Did he expect her to turn around while he ate? Would he eat at all? Should she even be there? Her thoughts and the swiftness with which they came began to make her feel nervous, and she unconsciously gripped the edge of the table.

Brahms stared at her intently - he clearly saw how strangely she was behaving - and Greta tried in vain to mask her discomfort, clearing her throat in a most awkward manner.

"Aherm, um...do you...want me to turn around while you eat, Brahms?"

Her question was met with silence, and it only proved to make her feel even more uncomfortable. But, rather than take the hint and keep her mouth shut, more words came spilling from her lips.

"I- I know you don't like to take it off. Your mask, I mean. And...if you're uncomfortable with me seeing your face, I'll leave. And I won't come back until you tell me to." Upon his lack of response, she quickly added, "I promise."

For the longest time, Brahms was silent, and Greta began to wonder if he had even listened to anything she had told him. But just as she was debating on whether or not to repeat herself, he finally responded.

He looked at her, at her plate of food, and then at his, and, tilting his head ever so slightly, gently pushed his plate towards her.

"Eat."

It seemed more like a polite request rather than an intimidating order, and even though she knew he was still a psychopath and couldn't be trusted, she couldn't help but feel as though he were genuinely worried about whether or not she had been getting enough to eat. And she _was_ hungry...

Taking the plate offered to her and pulling it closer, she smiled at him.

She could survive this.

She would.

* * *

She went about her chores for the rest of the day with ease, and before she knew it, it was time for reading.

Greta grabbed hold of the book they were currently on and sat down on the sofa. She flipped through the pages while she waited for Brahms, who was supposedly in the bathroom (though she had reason to suspect he had gone off to tend to Malcolm), and looked for the chapter they had left off on.

Everything had gone smoothly up to this point, and Greta held out hope that, if they could make it past this, she and Malcolm's escape wasn't just little more than a foolish pipe dream.

She found their bookmark just as Brahms stepped into the room, and she smiled (although warily) over at him. He walked over and sat down, lying with his back against her and his head on her chest just like he'd done before, and she tried desperately to contain the building anxiety in her gut.

Clearing her throat, she read for what felt like hours (even though it couldn't have been more than forty-five minutes) before she insisted they take a quick break. Her throat was getting hoarse, and she feared that she might be coming down with something.

As Brahms silently waited for her to start back up, Greta glanced once more at the broken shutters across the room, thinking yet again of Malcolm. She couldn't explain it, but she felt a sudden burst of confidence, and she finally decided to go ahead and ask the one question that had been plaguing her for the past day and a half.

"...Brahms, there's something I need to ask you-"

A loud banging stopped her from finishing her sentence, and they both jumped at the sudden noise. Brahms leapt from the couch and disappeared to the foyer, and Greta in turn sat up and strained her ears to detect the source of the sound. At first she thought it was Malcolm, but after a couple more bangs she realized that it was coming from the front door.

She ran to the window and pulled back the curtain, catching sight of two police officers. Hope and relief surged through her and she opened her mouth to yell and get their attention, but she never got the chance as she was yanked away by Brahms. His hand was over her mouth before she could even think to scream, and before she knew it, she was being dragged into a secret opening in one of the walls.

Not willing in the least to let what was possibly her only chance of being rescued go, she kicked and flailed like a wild animal, writhing in his grip to try and get away, but try as she might, Brahms was simply too strong for her to ever hope to overpower. His right hand held tight over her mouth while his left locked her arms in place. Kicking didn't seem to do a whole lot to deter him (not enough to get away, at least), and she eventually grew too tired to fight anymore.

Darkness and cobwebs obscured her vision as she was forced to stand in place, breaths coming in loud and hot over the top of Brahms' hand. She could feel his heartbeat as his chest heaved behind her head, whether from panic or exhaustion, she wasn't sure. The banging noise suddenly came back as the policemen knocked on the door again, though muffled, and they both froze.

With one last burst of energy, Greta jerked in his hold, butting her head against his chest and kicking at his shins and trying to wrench her arms free, but he only held tighter to her in response. Feeling a sense of urgency, she opened her mouth and bit down as hard as she could on his hand. The shock of it forced him to momentarily let go of her, and that split-second was all she needed; arms free, she elbowed him in the gut and threw herself against the opposite side of the wall cavity, pushing against it to try and open it up but to no avail.

"Help!" She screamed, banging against the wood. "Help! Hel-"

Her cries were silenced as Brahms' hand came back over her mouth and she was violently pulled further into the wall cavity.

A few more knocks came before stopping altogether, and her heart sank as she heard the police cruiser start up and fade away in the distance. Tears spilled over her cheeks and onto Brahms' hand, and she slumped in his hold. Once Brahms decided they were in no danger of being found, he released her, and she immediately turned to face him. He was staring at the hand he'd had over her mouth, at the tears there, and he only looked at her when she shoved him back.

He stared at her, shocked and bewildered, as though he didn't understand where all this was coming from. Greta couldn't bring herself to care, however, as she let out the rage and frustration she'd been feeling for the past twenty-four hours.

"How could you?!" She screamed. "How _could_ you?!"

Brahms reached up to touch her, but she was having none of it. Tears spilling over once more, she stepped forward and shoved him as hard as she could. Brahms hardly budged from the impact, and in her anger, Greta shoved him again, harder this time. She felt a sense of triumph when he plummeted backwards onto the dirty, dusty cement floor, but it was short-lived as he bounded right back up and charged toward her.

She pounded his chest with her fists, crying and shrieking as tears blurred her vision. Even in her frantic state, she knew she was no match for Brahms, but that wasn't to say it stopped her from trying. He twisted her around and held her against him, forcing her arms to her sides as he wrapped her in a bear hug.

Fear gripped her heart, but it didn't last once she realized he wasn't squeezing or trying to break her in half. She kicked and flailed and jerked her head to and fro, but it did next to nothing as Brahms heaved her up and carried her off into the wall cavity. She tried to see but her vision was too distorted from her crying, and before she knew it, she was being dropped onto the floor in a room she'd never been in before.

Her bare feet skidded against the wood as Greta scrambled away from her captor and tried to get her bearings, but it was incredibly hard considering how dark it was. She could just barely make out the white of Brahms' mask as he stared at her from across the room, angry and menacing. She froze and her heart thumped in her chest, eyes wide with terror.

 _Was he going to beat her? Rape her? Kill her? Leave her to starve and wither away to nothing?_

Her fears were soon quelled when Brahms abruptly turned and left, disappearing into the shadows. She hurried after him, hoping to find the exit, but her palms met nothing but wood. Relying on nothing but her sense of touch, Greta ran her hands all around the wall, trying to find a hinge or gap of some kind, but no matter how long she searched, nothing revealed itself to her.

She searched every corner of that room until eventually she gave up hope of finding any kind of exit, and collapsed on the floor in defeat. She couldn't stop the tears as the impact of her situation began to finally press down on her. She sniffled to try and keep them at bay, but it was a losing battle.

She laid there on the floor staring into the darkness, feeling more hopeless than she had ever remembered feeling in her life.


	6. Pretty Greta

**A/N: 09/30/2017**

 **yolanicoletta : Hey thanks, I'll try my best! **

**Someone : I wonder that about myself too, liking pairings like this! Haha XD If you ever do write a fic for these two, let me know! I'll totally check it out!**

 **DarknessAndDeath : Yeah, it's a really good song. Thank you so much for all of your reviews, they really motivated me to finish this next chapter. Hope you like it! :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _Do I make you feel like Christmas time?_

 _Put me in a party dress one time_

 _Love me 'til I see the sunshine_

 _Say you'll never leave me_

Lana Del Rey - Smarty~

* * *

Chapter six: Pretty Greta~

* * *

The sound of scraping wood filtered through her ears after some time (how long had she been in here? Minutes? Hours?), and Greta slowly sat up from her crumpled position on the floor to stare at where her ears were telling her the secret door was opening. She'd had plenty of time to adjust her vision, and she still could hardly see a thing. She wondered where exactly in the house she was.

The white of Brahm's mask popped out from behind the door, a lantern in one hand and a tray of food in the other.

 _Rush him!_ her mind screamed. _Get him while he has both hands occupied and run!_

 _No!_ her conscience quickly corrected. _He's still blocking the door. Doing anything now would be suicide. Wait._

She decided to obey that last thought as Brahms stepped further into the room, and she couldn't help but notice that he'd left the door wide open.

 _Why would he do that?_ She wondered. _He has to know he's leaving an opening for me. He's not stupid._

 _Maybe it's a show of good will_ , her mind answered. _I think he just doesn't want to scare you._

 _Of course. A fake safety net_.

Deciding to take the cautious route, she stayed put in the middle of the room as Brahms moved away from the door, setting down the lantern but keeping the tray of food. He shifted to her right and she mirrored him, both staying opposite of each other as they moved around the room. They stopped when they were both equal distances from the door, the tension heavy as they stared each other down. Greta wasn't sure what to expect from this encounter, or what Brahms had hoped to gain. She knew that he could do whatever he wanted with her and no one would ever know, be it torture or death or rape, and an unpleasant feeling began to form in the pit of her gut at just how vulnerable she truly was in this delicate situation.

Moments went by and nothing happened - neither person moved nor spoke - and Greta fearfully swallowed as anticipation built up inside her. She felt like a coiled up spring, tense and ready to bolt at the slightest indication that Brahms would hurt her.

Brahms knelt down and Greta jumped, jerking back into a defensive position. Noticing this, he deliberately slowed his movements as he set down the tray of food a few feet in front of him. He slowly slid it towards her, nodding his head and retreating back to his previous spot by the walls.

Greta looked at the tray, at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and glass of orange juice waiting for her, and was suddenly reminded of how hungry she was. Her stomach felt as though it were curling in on itself, and she knew that if she didn't eat soon she would develop a very unpleasant headache.

Swallowing down her fear and pride, she inched forward to take the tray, kneeling down and dragging it over to her side of the room, staring him down the entire time. She had no way of being sure of his intentions, and therefore he couldn't be trusted.

Though she was pretty sure she didn't have to worry about the food being tampered with at this point - call her crazy, but she was almost certain this was some weird, twisted version of an 'I'm sorry' gift - it didn't make her any less suspicious, either. If anything, she was only confused more now than ever. Why? Why did he act this way? What caused him to think hiding away from the world and torturing his parents with a doll version of himself was okay? Was _right?_ And locking her up and keeping Malcolm from her...

She stopped her train of thought before it became too overwhelming, taking a bite of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chewing slowly before swallowing. She looked at Brahms through what must have been bloodshot eyes (after all, she was still frazzled by recent events), and was finally able to find it within herself to speak.

"...Why are you doing this?"

Her voice was shaky, and her fingers were trembling, but there it was, a coherent sentence. Feeling a little braver, she straightened her spine and stood tall.

"Why won't you just let us go?"

Brahms froze, knowing she was referring to Malcolm, and he seemed to stop breathing altogether, he became so still. Her own breathing ceased for a heart-stopping moment, thinking that maybe this would be the final thing that would send him over the edge and persuade him to just up and kill her. But it seemed as though luck was still on her side. Malcolm's...not so much.

"Please..." she breathed, begging him. "Please, just...let me know he's alive."

Several heartbeats passed and her plea was never answered, and Brahms merely stared at her with his head slightly tilted, as though thinking. Considering. Deciding. She sighed to herself, knowing that she should've known better than to get more than two words out of a psychotic shut-in.

Brahms shifted on his feet, looking her up and down several times before finally making his way to the secret door and disappearing into the wall cavities, leaving the entrance hanging on its hinges.

Greta stared, not quite believing her eyes as she looked at the empty space where Brahms used to be, and at the door that was left wide open. She swallowed nervously, hesitantly walking over and peeking around the door, the lantern's light illuminating the few scarce feet beyond the room she was in. She gazed into the black abyss beyond the light, listening, waiting for Brahms to return, but he never came.

She looked at the lantern on the floor, briefly considering her options; she could risk going out into the house and being found by Brahms, maybe find Malcolm or an exit if she was lucky, or she could stay here and rely on a masked man with murderous tendencies to maybe come feed her every now and then.

Quickly deciding to go with the first option, she picked up the lantern and started her journey into the wall cavities, not knowing in the slightest where she was going.

* * *

The spaces in between the walls of the Heelshire home were more confusing than she would've ever thought to imagine, and she found herself victim to several twists and turns and sloping steps that would've disoriented the hell out of her had she not had a lantern to light her way.

Her bare feet were most likely completely covered in dirt and soot by now, and she'd had the unpleasant experience of stubbing her toe against jutting nails and screws several times. Brahms must have known them all by heart to leave her without any aid for his vision.

She walked for some time, taking a right and then a left, climbing a ways and then taking a right again. She eventually came to a long hallway of sorts that was perpendicular to the one she was in now, and could've led to anywhere in the house (she tried to estimate where she was but came up with nothing but a head full of question marks). Taking a moment to decide, she slowly turned to her left and traveled all the way down to the end.

 _Great_ , she thought. _A dead end_.

She sighed, staring at the musty wooden wall decorated in cobwebs and dirt, before turning to head back the way she had come. As she did, however, her foot kicked at an unknown object, the tiny thing skidding across the floor before coming to a stop a few feet away. She knelt down and reached for it, brushing the dust off of it and looking to see what it was.

It was a pendant.

One of those old, Victorian pendants with the silhouette of a woman's face, a brooch.

 _That's strange_ , she thought. _What would something like this be doing in-_

Her breath hitched, muscles freezing.

 _"There were others, of course, but Brahms rejected all of them. He always had trouble taking to other nannies. Though, none of them were as young or pretty as you..."_

Mrs. Heelshire's voice echoed through her mind, and a very sick feeling suddenly bloomed in her stomach. Dropping the pendant, she searched the floors and found other objects make themselves known to her; necklaces and shoes, a picture. God, how many had there been?

 _"It's Brahms. He can be...playful."_

These were all... _mementos_ of Brahms' past nannies. Were they still alive? Had he killed all of them? She became dizzy wondering. God, these could have been her. Any one of them. Hell, maybe she already was. After all, he had taken her shoes. Maybe he was just toying with her. She may have already been dead the second she'd walked in that door.

Deciding she'd had enough of the sights before her, she began to get up, but stopped when she caught sight of something shiny on the wall. She paused and looked closer, brushing some of the dust off of it to see that it was a-

A door hinge?

 _That's strange. A hinge shouldn't be on the inside of a wall._

Looking up, she saw another hinge, and then a perfectly straight crease in the wood.

 _Is this...?_

Curiosity piqued, she gently pushed on the wall, surprised to find it easily giving way. Her jaw dropped as natural light flooded her vision and she recognized the stairwell, but it was from the view of-

Hurrying out of the door, she stepped onto the carpeted floors (God, _carpet_. Her long lost friend) and shut the door, eyes landing on the painting of Brahms and his late parents. So the painting was a secret passage. She wondered why it was so big, but she'd figured it was just because Brahms was their only child and his parents had the money. So that meant there were probably other - many other - secret openings and passageways hidden throughout the house. Maybe even one for every room...

She blinked, shivering at the thought of a secret door being in her bedroom.

Snapping back to reality, she turned and cautiously looked around, listening for any indication that Brahms was near. She was only just beginning to truly realize how lucky she'd been so far as to keep both her life and her dignity intact. God only knew what he'd done to the other 'failed' nannies.

She shrieked and jumped as a loud ringing rang up through the halls, and it took her a moment to recover from her shock before she realized it was one of the house telephones. It seemed to be coming from downstairs, and she had a sick feeling she knew exactly who it was. Cautiously making her way downstairs, she followed the incessant noise into the kitchen, spying the old rotary phone on the countertop. She stared at it, fearful of who was on the other end. But for all she knew it could have been help, and she couldn't just pass up that chance. However small it was.

Steeling herself, she walked up to the phone and held it up to her ear.

"...Hello?"

At first all she heard was crackling silence, then-

"Greta?"

Her heart froze in her chest as the sound of Brahms' childlike voice came from the other end of the phone, and she wondered where exactly in the house he was. She looked up towards the ceiling, backing away as far as the cord would allow her as she searched for any sign of the masked man.

"Brahms?" She spoke into the phone, searching.

"I'm sorry, Greta." He said. His voice was so innocent, and if she wasn't so scared she'd be able to detect the genuine guilt in his tone. "I didn't mean to scare you. I was just afraid they'd take you away from me."

She almost let herself feel sorry for him, but cut herself short when she heard a faint mumbling in the background of the receiver. It was distant, and definitely muffled, but it was there. Was it-

 _Malcolm...?_

Trying to hide the urgency in her tone, she quickly asked, "Brahms, where are you?"

"I know you probably want to be alone, so I won't bother you today. Promise."

She purses her lips, frustrated at his lack of response to her question.

"Brahms, it's alright, I forgive you," she said. "Just _please_ tell me where you are."

"Goodbye, Greta."

"Wait, Brahms-!"

But he had already hung up.

Anger surging through her, she threw the phone as hard as she could across the room, though it didn't get very far being as it was corded to the ancient rotary dialer.

She braced her hands on the counter, gripping the edge until her knuckles turned white. She had been so close, _so_ close! Ugh, why couldn't she have just been able to find out where he was and then just leave? Why did life have to be so continuously hard on her? She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

 _It's okay, it's okay. At least now you know Malcolm's alive and somewhere in the house. Both of which are two major advantages. Everything's slowly coming together, so just keep your cool and continue as planned._

"Right..." she whispered to herself.

She went about her usual chores for the rest of the day, Brahms never once showing himself.

Nightfall eventually came, and - with much difficulty - she slept, not knowing in the least what she was going to do in order to rescue Malcolm.

* * *

Greta's eyes fluttered open the next morning, pleasantly surprised that she wasn't sick.

Her oncoming sore throat from the day before seemed to have subsided (for now, at least), and aside from the fact that she was still being held captive in her employer's home, she felt perfectly fine. It was six forty-two a.m, and she dreaded the day's coming events. She didn't know for sure what would happen today, but with her current track record, it couldn't be good.

She grunted and sat up, gasping at what she saw at the end of her bed; her necklace, shoes, and coral dress were set out neatly before her, laid out at the other end of the bed with care. Brahms had been in her room. He had come in at some time during the night and laid these out here, while she was still asleep. She frantically searched herself, checking to make sure all of her clothes were still there. She was relieved to find her bra still strapped and her pants still buttoned, but with someone as intelligent as Brahms that wasn't saying much. He could have easily just redressed her after having his way with her.

She slowly pulled the covers from her legs as she stood up and rounded the bed, getting a better look at the articles of clothing that Brahms had left. She hadn't been staring for more than five seconds before she heard loud music begin to play downstairs, and she jerked her head towards the sound. But it wasn't the usual type of music he played, which had been nearly unbearable to her ears. No, this was more of a gentle classical, dare she say romantic kind of sound. A far cry from the typical opera he'd preferred.

She looked again at the dress and began to put the pieces together. It was gradually becoming obvious.

 _Brahms_ , she thought. _He must have some kind of twisted fantasy he wants to play out so he can schmooze me over._

 _Best not disappoint..._

Ignoring that last thought her mind threw at her, she shed her clothes and reached for the dress.

* * *

She carefully rounded the corner to the reading room, feeling nervous as ever as to what was about to happen.

She was fully decked out in the clothes Brahms had picked for her, necklace, shoes, dress and all. She spied Brahms standing by the record player, his back to her as he played with the needle on the record as the music played. He hulked over the ancient device, and the sight was almost funny...if not for the fact that he was so dangerous.

Greta shifted uncomfortably on her feet, feeling the urge to fiddle with her dress. She felt extremely self-conscious, trying to impress a flat-out weirdo (or whatever she assumed his intentions were with giving her back the dress), but she feared what might happen if she refused. He might decide to finally kill her, or do away with Malcolm, or both. At this point, the last thing she wanted to do was upset him.

Swallowing down the bile rising in her throat, she deliberately cleared her threat to get his attention.

"Ahem."

Brahms immediately turned around, looking surprised at her appearance. He quickly turned the music down to a tolerable volume, and her ears silently thanked him. He must not have expected her so soon, or maybe he had just been too lost in thought to realize she was there. Either way, she hoped that this would go as smoothly as possible. For both their sakes.

"I'm...here." She said, not knowing what else to say.

God, the silence was so awkward. Even the music wasn't helping. She fought the urge to squirm in place, feeling every ounce of tension under his stare. It was just so weird, him being so quiet and demure all the sudden. Especially considering his behavior from the day before.

And to think she had almost let herself get comfortable, let herself feel safe. Ha! She wanted to scoff at the very thought.

Brahms suddenly put an arm behind his back and bent forward, extending his other hand towards her. She jerked a little bit, not expecting this, and she let out a barely audible squeak. She was absolutely rigid, unsure of what to do. What the hell was this? Some kind of crazy fantasy he wanted to get out of his system? A ploy? An apology? What did he expect her to do?

"Uh..." Hesitantly, Greta raised her hand and laid it in his, trying not to panic when he closed his fingers around hers.

He rose to his full height and stepped back, pulling her with him, and brought up his other hand for her to take. She accepted, and they began to lightly sway to the music on the record player. She stared up at Brahms as they danced, unsure what to think.

What was happening here, exactly? Were they coming to a truce? Was this an apology? A way of moving on from the past day's events? She didn't know. And considering Brahms' sporadic behavior, she probably never would. But, this was a pleasant change from yesterday, and even though she wasn't sure how to react to it, she sure as hell wasn't going to protest either.

The instrumentals came to a high point and Brahms began to sway at a faster pace, twirling them around the room in sync with the music. Greta began to have trouble keeping up (after all, it wasn't like she practiced ballroom dancing every day), and her feet quickly fell out of sync with Brahms'. He noticed this, and as the piano dropped and the violin sang, he placed both his hands around her waist and lifted her up, spinning her around the room.

"Ah! Brahms!"

Greta gasped in shock, eyes going wide as she looked down from the alarming height she was at. She knew it was rather irrational for her to think that Brahms would drop her, given his obvious size and strength, but she couldn't help but feel that very same fear. He spun her all the way around the room before setting her back down on the floor, and they locked hands once again as they twirled and danced across the room.

He dipped her and she stiffened - it was incredibly hard to be loose and carefree given her position - and he pulled her back up just as the song ended. She hadn't realized where in the room they were until she moved back and he moved forward to follow, and she bumped into one of the bookcases. She sputtered and panicked a bit, embarrassed at her blunder, adrenaline slowly dying as she realized how close they were.

Brahms stared down at her, chest heaving lightly against hers as they both struggled to catch their breath, and for a moment she forgot where she was altogether. Because the way he stared at her, the way he was looking at her now, made her want to feel like she wasn't in any danger at all. She knew she wasn't thinking clearly, but she also couldn't seem to help herself. There was just something about the look in his eyes that radiated genuine love and affection, something that made her feel safe. Or at least want to. She couldn't imagine feeling any better being with Malcolm.

Greta silently stared at Brahms' porcelain face, giving him a scared but gentle smile. He glanced at her lips, then back at her eyes, and she quickly realized that he was leaning down towards her.

She froze.

Oh God. He was going to kiss her.

Her eyes widened, unable to do anything but watch as arms slowly closed off her escape and that white mask drew closer. She tried not to act frantic - after all, if she panicked now, who knew what would happen - but if Brahms noticed her unwillingness to reciprocate, he chose to ignore it. She was able to stop herself short of turning her head away just as Brahms' cold, hard lips pressed into her own.

She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting this to be no different than when he had forced her to kiss him two nights ago, but was pleasantly surprised to find that to not be the case. This kiss was gentle, dare she say loving, and she amazingly didn't find herself wanting to jerk away in disgust.

Brahms must have noticed her comfort with his closeness, because he brought his hands down to cup her face, drawing back for only a second before leaning in to kiss her again. Greta responded in kind, bringing her own hands up to his face, and their kiss gradually deepened, growing in intensity before Brahms pulled away. Greta gasped for breath, shocked at how quickly things had escalated.

What was wrong with her? She should have been sick to her stomach at the very thought of kissing that dirty mask! She felt a sickness coming on, but it was more at _not_ feeling disgusted than anything else. This place, this role she was playing, was clearly messing with her head. Severely. She was losing herself. She needed to get her head straight. She needed to be reminded of just how truly dangerous he was.

Eyes alight with determination, Greta slid her hands further up his mask, fingers delving behind to the skin beneath.

The reaction was immediate; Brahms violently tore away from her once he realized she was trying to take his mask off, backing into the record player and knocking over the stand. The loud crash made Greta jump and shriek, and she instantly regretted her decision. Brahms was hunched over by the fallen record stand, and though he wasn't at his full height, he was more dangerous looking than she had ever seen him. His eyes were wide and wild, and his stance reminded her of that of an animal, ready to do anything. She instinctively flattened herself against the bookcase, muscles tight as coiled up springs. She ceased breathing, too afraid to so much as blink lest he react in an even worse manner.

Moments passed, though it felt like hours before one of them moved. Brahms suddenly jerked to her left, and she gasped and fell into the corner as he darted past her and she heard him disappear into the walls. She sat there for some time afterward, shaking and breathing heavily.

She shouldn't have done that. She had probably just sealed her fate right there. For all she knew, he was off to kill Malcolm. God, what was she going to do?

Greta sighed, long and hard, and buried her face in her hands.


	7. Help and Hurt

**A/N: 11/03/2017 Sooo I really wanted to do a Halloween update. It didn't happen. Ah well.**

 **yolanicoletta : Thanks so much! Your reviews give me life! Kisses back from the US!**

 **DarknessAndDeath : Thank you thank you thank you for yet another encouraging review. It's great to know what you like about each chapter, I love it :) **

**cleanstains : Thanks! Hope you enjoy the update!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _We could be more_ _, don't you run away_

 _We could be happier this way_

 _You could do more, don't you run away_

 _we could be happier_

Pale - Too Much~

* * *

Chapter Seven: Help and Hurt~

* * *

Several hours passed as she sat against the bookcase, thinking about what she was going to do.

The house was so quiet, she could've heard a mouse scrounging around in a corner somewhere. She hadn't heard a peep out of Brahms; he must've either been doing the same thing she was or hiding so deep within the house she couldn't hear. Either way, she was glad she didn't have to deal with him.

Greta glanced around the reading room, gaze landing on the broken shards of the mirror Brahms had burst through.

 _God, it seems like ages ago_ , she thought.

Sighing to herself, she slowly stood up and walked over to the mess, kneeling down to pick up the pieces. It astounded her one of them hadn't cut themselves yet. She proceeded to pick up the glass and tried not to think about how messed up her situation was. In what universe does an ordinary American nanny get whisked away to a British countryside home and left for dead with a psychotic masked man? Really?

 _Stupid..._

She shook her head to herself as she gathered up the pieces in her hand.

 _So stupid..._

Movement entered her peripherals, and Greta looked up as she was picking up the last piece of glass.

Brahms stood in the opening of the wall cavity, half shrouded in darkness, staring down at her.

"Ah!"

She gasped, gripping the glass too tight in her panic as she jerked back. The blood started pouring almost immediately, and she looked down to see the dip of her thumb oozing red.

Brahms reacted in seconds, rushing to her side in what she could only assume at this point was an attempt to help. She scrambled backwards in response, not in the least willing to trust him, but it did her no good as she was swept up into the arms of her captor.

"No!" She screamed, trying to wrench herself free. " _No!_ "

He only held tighter to her in response, and she was only vaguely aware of the feeling of being carried upstairs in her struggle.

"No, stay away from me! Stay _away!_ "

He turned one corner and then another, and before she knew it she was being plopped down onto something cold and ceramic. She blinked, registering that she was sitting in the bathroom on the toilet seat just as Brahms was grabbing hold of her hand and dragging it over into the sink. She jerked on instinct, but calmed when she realized that he was only cleaning it off.

He looked relieved, or at least his eyes did. But she supposed that she couldn't really discern the truth in that observation without seeing his whole face. Not by a long shot. She would never know his true intentions.

Anger bubbled inside her, and as she watched the cool, clear water run over her hand, she decided she'd finally had enough.

Without warning, the fingers of Greta's free hand delved into the mass of curls at the back of Brahms' head and she shoved his face into the bathroom mirror. The sound of shattering glass pierced her ears and she shrieked, the whole thing playing out as if in slow motion. Knowing it was too late to go back, she took advantage of Brahms' shock and brought her foot into the back of his knee, causing him to lose balance.

He grabbed her as he fell, and in the struggle they ended up in the bathtub. They were nothing but a violent tangle of limbs, confused and struggling for purchase. Greta's heart froze as sheer panic overtook her, not really knowing where his limbs started and hers ended. She somehow fought her way out of the tub, Brahms pulling at her shirt to try and regain control of the situation.

She jerked forward as hard as she could, past the sink and the toilet, and she heard the loud clang of ceramic on porcelain as Brahms's grip loosened and disappeared. She surged forward across the room and stopped herself just shy of hitting the wall, whirling around to face her opponent. Brahms lay sprawled halfway out of the tub, immobile. Greta gasped.

 _Is he...?_

Circling to get a better view, she saw that his chest was rising and falling, if only slightly.

 _He's still alive._

She peered down at his face, or what would have been his face, surprised to see the porcelain mask severely cracked. He must have really hit the sink hard.

She momentarily froze, her mind going blank.

Brahms was unconscious...Brahms was _unconscious!_

 _Oh, shit_ , she thought.

Panicking, she sprinted out of the bathroom and headed for the stairs. She didn't know how much time she had, and with her current track record, she knew it couldn't be much.

But she'd be damned if she wasn't going to try.

* * *

She scampered down to the first floor as fast as she could, rushing to the telephone in the kitchen and dialing the UK emergency service.

"Hello, what is your emergency?"

"Yes, I need help, I'm being held captive by a masked man in the Heelshire house and I-"

She sounded hysterical even to her own ears, but she hoped the woman on the other end believed her.

"Woah, slow down, ma'am," the responder said. "Where are you located?"

"I'm being held against my will in the Heelshire home," she said, trying not to sound as rushed. "There's a masked man here and he's holding me captive."

"Alright, ma'am, I'm gonna ask you to find someplace safe to hide for the time being, alright? I've just sent out a dispatch and they should be there shortly."

Greta nodded even though the woman on the phone couldn't see, comforting herself with the thought that help was on the way. A far off scuffling sound jolted her from the phone, and her eyes went wide; Brahms was awake.

"Miss, if it's possible, I'm going to ask you to stay on the line until police arrive, is that al-"

"He's awake..." she whispered, terror seizing her.

"I'm sorry? Miss? ...Miss?"

Greta slowly set the phone back on the receiver and hung up, tiptoeing her way to the foyer to peek up at the staircase. She jumped as a loud crash pierced her ears, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from making any sound as she heard Brahms tearing the place apart looking for her.

Bad. This was bad.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs and Greta's entire body shook with panic as she hastily turned around to look for a place to hide. Finding nothing, she raced beneath the staircase as he came down, hoping he hadn't seen her. She nestled herself in the corner, curling into a ball beside the desk that sat underneath the steps. She wasn't sure if it was fate finally working with her or just plain blind luck, but Brahms ran down the steps and barreled right past her and straight into the kitchen, tearing open cupboards and slamming open doors.

Not about to waste her chance, Greta scurried out from her hiding place and padded as softly as she could up the stairs, wanting to be anywhere he wasn't. Deciding to hide in her bedroom, she ran to her bed and got on her hands and knees, flipping up the covers to peek beneath. It was high enough from the floor that she should be able to fit.

Still hearing things being torn apart downstairs - dishes, it sounded like - she hurried and weaseled herself underneath her bed, kicking the flap back down to completely hide herself from view. It was cold and cramped, and now that she was there she wasn't so sure it had been a good idea; if he found her, she wouldn't be able to get out or fend him off.

The loud clangs and clamors were soon replaced by bangs and thumps as she heard Brahms move to the reading room, tearing books from their shelves and throwing chairs around. His actions rattled through the floors and into her fingertips, and she listened intently as he moved throughout the house.

Eventually the noises came to a stop, and she began to hear muffled thumps fade into wood. Good, he was in the walls. If he was in the walls, he wasn't near her. He couldn't touch her, couldn't find her. This was good. Unless...unless he was going to hurt Malcolm.

 _God, please be alright..._

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm herself down.

"Police! Open the door!"

She gasped in relief and her heart absolutely jumped when she heard the oh-so-comforting sound of officers suddenly bursting through the front door. She'd never been so conflicted on what to do - her instincts screamed at her to go but her muscles clenched terribly for her to stay put - but she ultimately forced herself to move. Adrenaline rushing through her, she scrambled out from beneath the bed and made a run for the door-

Strong arms caught her around her middle and hauled her backwards into a hard chest, and she'd never felt hope drain from her so fast. She kicked and screamed - "Help!" - but it did her no good as Brahms wrapped his arms tightly around her and hid them behind a wall in her closet.

He covered her mouth and forced her not to move, and she could feel his heart hammering behind her head as the police ran upstairs to where they were.

"Police!"

A somewhat awkward silence followed, and creaks in the wood sounded beneath their feet as they explored the room, slow and cautious.

"Do you see anything?" A male voice asked, muffled through the wall.

"No, nothing," another called back.

"Well keep looking. I definitely heard someone up here."

Greta screamed at the top of her lungs but it didn't seem to do much good with Brahms' hand over her mouth. Tears began to stream down her face. Could they really not hear her?

"Hey, down here! I found something!"

The comfort of knowing someone safe was just feet from her disappeared as the two officers in her room ran downstairs. Their voices were incredibly muffled, but she was fairly certain she'd heard a, "look at this." and a, "how far does it go?" They must have found the opening in the book room. It couldn't be much else. Maybe...maybe if they explored enough, they'd find her. Hope sparked within her once again.

About a minute passed, maybe two, when they heard one of the officers getting close to where they were. Greta was elated, but Brahms hardly found any joy to be had with the situation; he slowly began moving them in the opposite direction of the intruders, heading towards the back of the house. A part of her hoped that he would forget where he was going and run into a dead end, but she knew better. Brahms was just as much a part of the house as the walls themselves.

She was so conflicted it hurt; should she stay quiet? Wait for the right moment to try and escape? Be rescued? Or try to get away immediately and think about her actions later? Anxiety built inside her to the point of bursting, and Greta decided to take her chances.

 _Fight or flight._

Taking a moment to steel herself, she tightened her leg muscles in preparation to kick Brahms as hard as she could-

"Hey, I found something!"

She froze, listening intently to the officers on the other end of the wall.

"What is it?"

"Up here, it's a man!"

"A man? Dead or alive?"

Greta's breath hitched. It felt like a thousand heartbeats had passed before she heard an answer.

"He's unconscious, but alive. Come have a look!"

She nearly sobbed with relief. _Malcolm..._

Brahms possessively tightened his grip on her, as though reading her thoughts. She sagged in his arms; he would never tolerate her being with anyone but him. He'd made that perfectly clear when he'd killed Cole and injured Malcolm. Brahms turned and began to back the both of them towards the other end of the house - to a secret room or just away from the police, she didn't know - when an audible 'click' stopped him dead in his tracks.

Harsh light flooded past them and he turned Greta and himself towards the sound, his grip on her stiffening when they came face to face with an officer pointing a pistol and a flashlight at them. It was a younger man, probably late twenties, with blond hair and white eyelashes. He trembled behind his gun.

"S...stop right there, now. That's close enough. Just let the lady go and we won't have any problems. O- okay?"

Brahms' breaths came fast and warm against the top of her head, and Greta could tell he was panicking. She knew the cop was trying to help but he was making her captor incredibly nervous, and that was never a good thing when it came to people with severe mental health issues. Brahms retreated back the way they'd come, and the officer shakily followed, clearly unsure himself about what to do.

"Now, now, I said stop! Stay where you are! Or I'll shoot!"

Brahms continued to back away with Greta securely in his arms, disobeying the man's orders. She squeezed her eyes shut under the harshness of the flashlight, too bright for her sensitive eyes.

And that was the last thing she saw before a loud gunshot pierced her ears.


	8. Rescued

**A/N: 01/12/2018 Hello again! Sorry it's been so long! I wasn't sure where exactly to take this thing for the longest time and I struggled like crazy with the last part of the chapter. I'm still deciding on where Brahms and Greta are going to be by the end of the story, but I've got an idea now. I hope you guys like this chapter. I almost didn't post it because I thought it was too OOC towards the end. But whatever, it's done.**

 **Yolanicoletta : Thank you! Here's more! :D**

 **DarknessAndDeath : Hey thanks a lot, I'm glad you liked the last chapter and hopefully you like this one as well. Pinning everything on Malcolm and having the police arrest him instead of Brahms would have actually been a pretty brilliant idea, but alas, I went with this. Enjoy the update :)**

 **Ethereal Sphere : Woah thank you! I'm really glad you like the way I write Greta and Brahms! Hopefully you like this update!**

 **dontcallmeprincess : Hey! Hope you're still alive for this update!**

 **Guest : Oh gosh thank you so much. I really tried my best with this thing to make it as believable and in-character as possible. I picture it in my mind as being a legitimate possible alternate version of the movie. Anyway I hope you like this next chapter :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _In my dream (in my dream)_

 _It was all so very perfect_

 _In my dream (in my dream)_

 _It was never bad at all_

In My Dream - Fyfe Monroe~

* * *

Chapter eight: Rescued~

* * *

Her eyes fluttered open, lids heavy with exhaustion.

Her blurry vision slowly focused on the ceiling above her, dark and tinted with multicolored street lights from outside.

 _...Street lights?_

She rolled her head to the right, towards a window she was certain hadn't been there before in her room, coming to face a view she knew didn't exist in the Heelshire Home; it was a country house, and yet this was a city view. Confused, Greta began to sit up, stopping when she felt a tug on her left arm. She looked down, still groggy from sleep, and saw that she had an IV hooked up to her.

 _What...?_

She pawed at it a little, running her fingers over it to make sure it was actually there, and raised her head to look at her surroundings. It was nighttime. She was in a hospital room. The beeping of the various machines around her finally filtered through her ears, and she struggled to remember what had happened to get her there.

A sudden chill ran up her spine, and she froze, a feeling of danger rolling through her entire body and shaking her to her core.

A breeze blew in, rustling the curtains to the window she was sure hadn't been open before, and a sudden shift in the darkness drew her attention to the space just past the window, a few yards away. It moved slowly towards her, and she could only stare as a looming, black shadow came into view.

The bone white of Brahms' mask reflected the red, green, and yellow street lights outside, and she shrank back in fear. The machines began to beep faster along with her increasing heart rate, and she swore he seemed to grow in size as he loomed over her, every bit as imposing and terrifying as she'd always imagined him to be capable of being.

He advanced on her, swooping in like a hawk would its prey, and she screamed as he crawled atop her and wrapped his hands around her throat-

"Ah!"

Greta gasped awake, breathing heavily as the machines in her hospital room slowed to a steady rhythm.

She took a few moments to assure herself that she wasn't in any danger, that it was just a dream, but had little success. Brahms was nowhere to be seen, but be that as it may, she knew very well that someone like him was perfectly capable of getting to her if he so wished it.

She rubbed her face and took a long, deep breath to calm herself. The click of the door on the far side of her room snapped her to attention, and a police officer entered. She recognized him as one of the officers who rescued her.

"Hello, Greta, I'm Officer Hayes. How are you feeling?" He asked, coming to stand at her bedside.

"Uh...fine, I guess," she said, reaching up to touch her throat. "How did I get here?"

The policeman looked bewildered. "Wha...you don't remember?"

She shook her head.

"Miss...you were being held captive by that deranged lunatic in the Heelshire Home. We found you in the wall cavities and shot him..." he paused to see if any of what he was saying had jerked her memory. "You passed out shortly after, doctor said it was from exhaustion and emotional trauma. So you were admitted into nearest hospital. Does...any of this make sense?"

Greta thought for a moment. Flashes of memories flitted through her mind, small pieces gradually coming back to her. Brahms, book room, Malcolm, bathtub, wall cavity, policemen, bright light...

It wasn't as vivid as it should have been, at least not to her, but it was a start. Hopefully she would get the rest of her missing time back soon.

She looked up at Hayes. "Is...is he..."

"Dead?" He finished for her. She nodded. "No, ma'am. The bullet only grazed him. He's since been evaluated and admitted into an asylum for the criminally insane."

She wasn't sure why she breathed a sigh of relief. "How long have I been out?"

"Only a couple of days." Hayes replied. "Long enough for Brahms to be admitted and your male friend to recover from his poor conditions in captivity."

She drew in a sharp breath. "Malcolm? Is he okay?"

"He's fine, ma'am. No worse for wear, I believe. Doctors held him for a few hours, asked him questions, and he was on his merry way."

"Oh...is he...is he still here?" She asked.

"As a matter of fact, he's in the downstairs cafeteria," he said cheerily. "I can go and fetch him if you want."

"Yes, please."

He smiled and turned to leave, exiting through her door and closing it softly behind him.

Greta observed her surroundings, looking at the pale walls and wooden floors. Her bedsheets were a pastel blue, and she fiddled with a loose thread on them for a few moments while she waited for officer Hayes to bring Malcolm up. Everything around her was calm and sterile, almost to the point where she felt as though whoever had been hired to decorate had been trying too hard. She looked to her left, catching sight of a tiny alarm clock on her nightstand. It was eleven forty-three a.m. It hurt her head to think about how much later (or earlier) it was in U.S. time. Her sister was probably worried sick.

The door clicked open and she raised her head just in time to see Malcolm peeking in to see her.

"Greta?"

She smiled widely, though still slightly tired. "Malcolm!"

He stepped into the room and practically sauntered up to her, leaving officer Hayes to stand guard behind the door.

"Oh, my God, I'm so glad you're alright." He hugged her, squeezing her tightly, and Greta closed her eyes to relish the feeling of being safe that she had grown so accustomed to when in his presence.

"Me too." She chuckled as he pulled away.

His face took on a serious tone. "It's no laughing matter, Greta. You could have _died_."

Her smile faded, knowing he was right. "Yeah, I know."

A beat of silence passed, and Malcolm sighed, expression softening. "...How are you feeling?"

"Better," she nodded. "It's funny, I...I almost can't believe this is happening. That it _has_ happened."

"I know." He agreed, sighing yet again. "I almost have trouble believing it myself. And I'm the one who had to deal with all the questions. You got lucky and passed out."

He chuckled a bit and she did the same. "Yes, well _some_ of us had to deal with Brahms at a much more personal level than they were comfortable with."

She gave him a pointed look, and noticed Malcolm's expression twist into something she couldn't decipher. He stared off into space, the corners of his mouth falling slack. "...You know, I was up there for a while. In the...the room where he...kept his...his _mementos_ of you."

Greta's eyes widened the smallest fraction as she absorbed his words. She waited for him to continue.

"It was sick and twisted, but...I think...I think in some strange, odd way...I think he really did care for you."

His gaze finally shifted back to her, and she tried her best to hide her shock. She opened her mouth to ask him exactly what he meant by that, but was unable to do so as officer Hayes chose that moment to interrupt.

"Excuse me, miss, but there are a couple of docs here to evaluate you."

A doctor and a nurse entered the room and made their way towards her, and she knew that she would have to save her question for another time. She looked at Malcolm, who tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead before leaving to let the doctors do their job.

"How are you feeling, Miss?"

Greta responded that she was fine, and simply let the nurse do her checkup while the doctor asked her questions and tacked off things on his clipboard, all the while thinking of Brahms and how he was doing in a place that must have been so foreign to him. As far as she knew, he had never been anywhere except his parent's house his whole life, and now he had been thrown into a padded room somewhere being poked and prodded by people he didn't know. In a way, she felt guilty - she had done this to him - and part of her wanted to do things differently, perhaps find another way for things to end. But she knew deep down that nothing was really her fault, nor was anything really his. They were simply victims of circumstance, and things had merely worked out the way they were meant to.

She hoped Brahms was okay.

* * *

"How long were you hired to be the caretaker of the Heelshire home?"

Greta squinted underneath the harsh light of the overhead lamp, feeling awkward as she sat across from the officer. After it was decided she was in good health, the doctor had given her a release form from the hospital and she had been escorted to the police station by officer Hayes. If only she was being questioned by him as well.

"Uh, just a few months. They told me they were going on a trip and needed someone to watch after their son."

Her questioner, officer Bluhm, was far less sociable than Hayes. While she could respect that he wanted to draw a visible line between work and social life, she also thought that it wouldn't hurt to break the ice at some point and at least take the edge off. After all, it wasn't like she was the one who had committed the crime. Still, she wasn't about to tell him that.

"And before that, did you have any interactions with the Heelshires? Did you know them prior to this job?"

She shook her head. "No. No, I- I never knew of them until I responded to their online ad asking for a babysitter."

He didn't look at her as he spoke, just asked question after question and marked things off, much like her doctor had. It was starting to make her fidget.

"And what about the ex-boyfriend, Cole?"

She looked down at her hands. "He, uh...he's dead."

Bluhm looked up at her. "I know. We found his body outside in the woods, about a mile past the home. It was hard to identify, as it was half-eaten by rats, but it was him."

Greta's mouth fell open. So that was what Brahms had done with him.

Bluhm continued. "What I'm wondering is his connection to all this. According to what we could dig up, he has no ties to the Heelshires, and you two hadn't seen each other in over a year. So how does his body end up in the U.K. where you happen to be at the time? I understand he was abusive?"

She felt her throat tighten. Did she really have to talk about this?

"We had been having problems almost since we met. I got pregnant and he promised that he would change, but...he didn't. I had a miscarriage and left him, thinking he wouldn't follow me...I was wrong."

He nodded. "And the miscarriage? Was it because of him as well?"

She swallowed thickly, unable to look at him. "Yes."

"I see."

Silence followed, and the squeaking of officer Bluhm's chair as he leaned back in it felt as loud as a gunshot to her ears. He looked over his checklist, seeming to come to a decision on something before tossing it onto the table and leaning forward again, lacing his hands together as he looked at her beneath the harsh light.

"Look, the reason I'm asking you all of these questions isn't because I think you've done anything wrong. In fact, I think you're a brave and resourceful woman for having been able to go through what you did and come out the other side of it unharmed."

When he didn't continue, she asked, "Then why am I here?"

"Because the Heelshires recently updated their will. We found it when we searched the house after apprehending Brahms Heelshire. Miss Evans, the entirety of the Heelshire fortune and estate now falls to you."

Shock painted Greta's face. She sat there staring at the officer across from her with her mouth hanging open like a fish, completely blindsided by what he had said. That had never been agreed upon in their emails.

"I...but...they'd have to be-"

"Killed," Bluhm finished for her. "They were found drowned in a lake nearly two weeks ago. We went to pay their grocery boy a visit to question him, and when he wasn't there, we went to the house. No one had answered the first time. Now we know why."

She retreated inside herself for a few moments, trying to think.

"...Miss Evans, what do you plan to do?"

She looked up, locking eyes with the officer. "What do you mean?"

"Do you plan to keep the fortune? The house? Because if so, there's a lot to go over."

At her silence, he added, "You don't need to decide right now, but we will need an answer. As I'm sure you can imagine, we don't deal with international wills very often, and depending on what you want to do, it's very complex."

He leaned back in his chair once more and stood up, taking his clipboard with him.

"Take your time. Think things through. Come back when you've made a decision."

He began to walk away and leave the room, but Greta quickly twisted in her chair and opened her mouth before she could think.

"Where is Brahms?"

He turned to her, a confused look on his face. "The Heelshire boy? In an asylum being looked after by psychiatrists. Why?"

She steeled her gaze as she looked at him. "Can you tell me where?"

* * *

Yorkshire Hospital for the Criminally Insane was something out of a horror movie.

It looked like an abandoned prison, with age-old brick and barbed wire fences, and dying trees as far as the eye could see. It was nothing short of unsettling, and Greta almost expected to see ghosts shadowing along its reinforced walls. She followed swiftly behind one of the doctors in charge of overseeing the patients, not wanting in the least to be left behind. The last thing she wanted was to end up lost in this place.

"I've seen a lot of patients in my day, but...never anything like Brahms."

Doctor Leia Bonham sounded almost giddy as she spoke of Brahms, and Greta went decidedly silent. She made her uneasy to say the least, and she suddenly wasn't so sure if some of the doctors in this place shouldn't be patients. They walked a ways more down the hall and came to a stop at a large metal door on their left.

"I've been wondering how he would react around you," Dr. Bonham said as she unhinged the complicated lock on the door. "But I wasn't sure if you'd ever come."

She smiled at Greta as she opened the door and motioned her inside.

Cautiously, Greta peeked around the door and past the doctor into a white padded room, stepping up to the threshold of the door. Brahms sat huddled in the corner, his back to them, holding his head and rocking back and forth.

"We're not afraid of him hurting himself, he's too intelligent for that," Dr. Bonham said. "But he's been...withdrawn, since we took his mask."

Greta snapped her gaze to the older woman. "You took his mask?"

She shrugged. "It had to be done. It made the staff uncomfortable and upper management wouldn't let us keep it. We have it locked away in storage for the police to collect as evidence, but they've yet to come."

Greta nodded, a silent 'oh' forming on her lips. She wasn't so sure about this now. Brahms had always been...decent to her, but he had always had his mask. Always. And she knew how conscientious he was about his face, about the burns. This suddenly didn't seem like a very good idea.

She started to take a step back, but stopped herself when she realized that after the hell she'd been through, this should be the least of her worries. She was safe, she was protected, and this was what she had come here for. She wanted to see Brahms, she _needed_ to see Brahms. This was...part of her recovery process. It needed to be done.

Steeling herself, Greta put one foot into the room, then the other. Timidly, she approached Brahms, gauging his reaction with each step; he didn't seem to have one. She tried her best to ignore the overexcited doctor behind her - after all, she knew she wasn't going to lock her in there with him and let him maul her to death (most likely, anyway) - but it proved quite difficult. Having someone so giddy as one of the head doctors in a place like this was, to say the least, unsettling.

She finally stopped just behind him, only about a foot away, and waited for him to do something or at least acknowledge that she was there. But he didn't. He just sat there, rocking back and forth with his fingers tangled in the curls of his hair. His mind must have taken a toll when they took his mask away. Or maybe some crazy part of him actually missed her. For all she knew, it was both.

Slowly, cautiously, Greta bent down and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Brahms..."

He immediately stilled, and her breath hitched. Moments passed, and when nothing happened, she tried again. "Brahms, it's me. Greta."

As soon as her name passed her lips, he tore away from her and shoved her backwards, hard, onto the floor. Luckily for her, the floors were padded, so her fall was broken, but the shock of it shook her. She gasped, seeing that Brahms had moved from one corner to the other once she regained her bearings, still refusing to look at her. She heard movement behind her, probably from the two guards, but she wasn't ready to leave just yet. Not without one more try.

"Brahms, please. It's me, Greta. I just want to see you."

She got up and went towards him again, but this time it was his voice that stopped her.

"No."

She froze, completely shocked to hear his voice, his real voice.

"B...Brahms, please. I just...I need to know you're okay."

He curled his arms around himself, drawing further into the corner.

"No...you...you can't... _see_ me like this..."

Greta's face fell, though no one could see it. She truly felt sorry for the man in front of her. She knew she shouldn't, that he was a horrible person who had done horrible things to her, Malcolm, and Cole (and countless others), but he was still a victim in his own way. She could only imagine how he had felt after that fire, how his parents had felt. She would probably never know the events or reasons that lead up to the doll, but she was sure it was tragic. It made her wonder if monsters could have been normal human beings if only for the presence of someone who cared.

She thought out her response, tone careful so as not to startle him. "Brahms, I don't care what you look like. I just want to see you. Please."

His voice was deep and gravelly, screechy, almost, as he replied, "You need to leave. You can't see me like this, _no_ one can see me like this!"

She jumped at his raised voice, and contemplated backing down and sparing herself the danger. She knew it was risky enough talking to him as it was, and he was clearly trying not to fly off the handle. It wouldn't have been smart to do anything other than leave like he asked. _But..._

Greta crept closer until she was within touching distance of the frail man huddled in the corner at her feet. She bent down to whisper in his ear. "I'll leave if that's what you want. But know that it might be a long time before I get to see you again."

She let her words sink in before threading her fingers through his hair and placing a kiss on the back of his head and turning to leave. She took measured, deliberate steps, waiting for him to turn back and stop her, to beg her to stay. But he didn't. She reached the end of the room and stepped back out into the hall, looking back to see the edge of Brahms' frame as a disappointed Dr. Bonham closed and locked the door.

"I had so hoped he would react more to your presence. The shock of everything that's happened in the past couple of days must still have a hold on him. Ah, well. Maybe next time." She turned to Greta and smiled. "Do you need a ride home?"

The younger woman blinked, slightly taken aback by the question. She was feeling so many things at the moment - concern, hurt, disappointment - that she was having a bit of a hard time processing her words. "U- Uh, no, thank you. I've got someone waiting for me outside."

She was escorted back to the front of the building by the two guards and taken to her car, which one of the officers had been kind enough to give her a ride in. She told the cop to take her back to the station, where Malcolm would pick her up and let her stay with him until they got things sorted out with the will and investigation.

Greta sighed and plonked her forehead against the passenger window.

She had come here for answers. For closure.

She wasn't quite sure why, but she had left with even more confused feelings towards Brahms and her situation than she had when she'd arrived.


	9. Encounter

**A/N: 11/09/2018 FINALLY BACK WITH A NEW CHAPTER. GEEZ. I am so sorry this took so long, I wanted to upload this for Halloween but as you can see I'm a little late. Hope you enjoy this chapter anyways, hopefully I haven't lost my touch X(**

 **Thank you to Nicole, Ichigoblossom23, Guest, Brahmsy, cat105, GenderbentQueen, Emma White, OneViruz, SKYSPRITE, Ponyboy18, Jennifer, fanfic authoress, watchermostcharmed, HappyHime, Lemon Biscuit, and redxcanary for your reviews. You guys are freaking amazing and the support you give me for my writing is just awesome. Honestly I may never have updated if not for you guys :)**

 **DarknessAndDeath : Yes, I totally ship GretaxBrahms romantically. Though I can't really see a happy future for the two of them realistically, I do think that with the right mental help Brahms could learn to be a normal, decent human being that would be allowed out in public (I mean Brahms is pretty intelligent so it's not like his mind is lost). I do plan on writing a happy ending for these two though, hopefully it doesn't disappoint :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Boy.**

* * *

 _Show me how it ends, it's alright_

 _Show me how defenseless you really are_

 _Satisfied and empty inside_

 _Well that's alright, let's give this another try_

Breaking Benjamin - So Cold~

* * *

Chapter nine: Encounter~

* * *

When Malcolm had offered to let her stay with him until things were sorted out with the police and the Heelshire's will, Greta hadn't expected there to be other occupants. She had always perceived Malcolm to be a sort of bachelor or loner, and so was very surprised to find a mother and two very young siblings waiting on the other side of the door as he opened it for her to go inside. Wide eyes on little faces stared her down, strangely awed at having such a pretty stranger in the house. And then the inevitable barrage of questions came.

"Are you the one everyone's been talking about?"

"How did you escape?"

"You're so pretty."

"Who was that other bloke they said went missing?"

"Wha- hey- it's _just_ until she gets properly settled," Malcolm kindly but firmly told his siblings, interrupting their ridiculously loud chatter.

"Is she the one that's been on the telly?" One of them - the middle child, she guessed - asked.

Greta looked questioningly at Malcolm, who gave his younger brother a correcting look. As if to prove the validity of their question, the children led them into the living room of their tiny flat and switched on the television, flicking a couple of channels over to the news station.

"Authorities are currently still investigating the case of American nanny Greta Evans and the sudden death of Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire, who were found two weeks prior drowned in a lake, apparently by suicide. The sole living heir to the Heelshire fortune and estate, Brahms Heelshire, previously thought dead, is currently being held in an asylum for the criminally insane. It is currently unclear what will happen to the remaining fortune left behind by the late Heelshires, but we will keep you up to date the moment we get more information."

Greta looked to Malcolm, an odd look of shock decorating her features. Malcolm only looked at her apologetically, as though to say he was sorry but there was nothing he could do. She supposed she should have expected to see herself on the news, but she hadn't thought much of it since waking in the hospital. It had been the last thing on her mind up to this point, and she wondered how much the story had been twisted in her home country, or if it had even made it that far. Watching it on the news, though, it almost felt as if it wasn't her at all, but someone else's story to feel sorry about.

 _It's_ _like_ _something_ _from_ _a_ _horror_ _movie_ , she thought, not quite believing it herself.

How often did things like this happen? Let alone in the quiet British countryside? She should have known better than to think anyone would respect her privacy after the experience.

"Okay," Malcolm's mother cheered abruptly, clapping her hands and making everyone jump. "Who's ready for supper?"

* * *

"My God, Greta, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Sandy."

After dinner, Greta had asked very kindly if she could use the house phone, a luxury which Malcolm's mother graciously granted. She had a feeling that under normal circumstances she wouldn't have been allowed (and she knew international calls weren't cheap) but Malcolm's mother was kind, and therefore understood her need to touch base with her sister back in America, if only for a few minutes.

"God, I can't believe what they're saying on the news. They haven't really told us much over here, though. It's like your story is being overlooked by all the other crazy stuff that's going on...it makes me mad."

"Don't be," Greta consoled. "I'm perfectly fine, so it's not like my story needs justice."

In all honesty, Greta was glad they weren't focusing much on what had happened to her back home. It would mean less shame and embarrassment for her once she returned. The last thing she wanted was to be known as _that_ girl who had been held hostage by a British psycho.

Her sister sighed. "You're right. I guess I can't expect anything different. I'm glad you're okay, Greta."

Greta smiled even though her sibling couldn't see it. "Me too. Tell Morgan I said hi."

"I will. Love you."

"Love you too."

She gently set the phone back on its receiver, mixed emotions swirling inside her.

* * *

Greta's eyes drifted open, darkness meeting her.

Malcolm had put her up in their only spare guest room, which had been converted into a crafting room some odd years ago, and it would be polite to say the space was a little cramped. Things had to be moved around and dug through just to get to the pull-out bed, and it was so small Greta doubted another person could even fit onto it properly. Though in all honesty she was glad for it; she knew he would never hurt her, or try to put her in an uncomfortable situation, but Malcolm still clearly cared for her, and in a way she knew now she didn't reciprocate. After Brahms, she didn't think she could handle being intimate with anyone for a very long time, and the bed merely gave her an easy excuse for Malcolm.

Pale, shadow-covered cement greeted her vision, and she was so tired she felt nothing but exhaustion and irritation at having woken up. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cold wall, trying to get back to sleep, when she felt a mild buzzing at the back of her skull. The kind you get when you feel like you're being watched. Slowly, Greta opened her eyes, and shifted onto her back.

She nearly screamed when her eyes landed on a tall figure hulking over the edge of her bed, their black silhouette like a void ready to suck her soul from her body. She reigned in the sound rising from her throat and turned it into a strangled gasp, her hand rushing to her mouth in hopes none of the other occupants in the flat overheard. Several very long seconds passed before she decided that no one else had been roused from their sleep, and she gradually dropped her hand with trembling movements.

Rustling curtains by an open window beyond the intruder told her of their means of entry, and upon looking closer, she could see the edges of a mask on their face. Her muscles immediately relaxed at knowing who her visitor was, but she wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

"Brahms?"

A dream.

This had to be a dream.

There was no way-

He raised his head at the sound of his name, and as he stepped closer and the light hit him, she saw that she was right.

Except it wasn't Brahms, not like she remembered.

His mask was wrinkled and misshapen, and there were carefully painted brows and lashes around the eye openings. It looked to be paper mache, and she remembered Dr. Bonham telling her that they had confiscated his mask. He must have made himself a new one.

"Brahms..." she said again, cautiously. "You shouldn't be here. If anyone finds out you're here it'll mean big trouble for everyone."

Her mind whirled; how had he found her? How did he know where she was? How had he gotten here? She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying more; she hated that she still felt the instinct to speak to him as though he were a child. This was a man - a dangerous man - and she had to treat him as such.

"Did you mean it, Greta?" He asked suddenly, and she couldn't help but furrow her brows in confusion as he tilted his head and stepped closer. "Did you mean what you said?"

Puzzled and slightly panicked, Greta racked her brain for what he was referring to.

 _No...you...you can't..._ see _me like this._

 _Brahms, I don't care what you look like. I just want to see you. Please._

 _You need to leave. You can't see me like this,_ no _one can see me like this!_

Her lips parted as the memories of their last conversation drifted back to her, and Greta stared up at him, so close now, with as comforting and honest of an expression as she could muster.

"Of course I meant it, Brahms. Have I ever lied to you?"

Had she? She had deceived him, yes, many a time. But lied? She couldn't think of a time she had flat out lied. Not to him.

She knew she was going out on a limb as Brahms began to seriously consider her question, and Greta sincerely hoped for both of their sakes that he wasn't able to recall a time when she had been dishonest with him. She waited, the seconds passed, and ultimately Brahms shook his head 'no'. She breathed a sigh of relief, and instantly felt more at ease. That ease was quickly crushed, however, when Brahms slowly came to sit down beside her and gently took her hands in his own, placing her fingers on either side of his mask.

Greta's mouth fell open in shock, not quite believing what was happening. The one thing she'd resisted doing, the source of the curiosity she felt burning behind her eyes every time she looked at him, the thing she'd once used to remind herself how dangerous he was, was being offered freely to her right now. She blinked, pursing her lips and thinking. Considering.

She knew what she was going to do. They both did. But that didn't mean she felt comfortable with it.

Unable to control herself any longer, Greta gently closed her fingers around the edges of the mask, and slowly, carefully pulled it off. She tried to control the gasp that escaped her lips but was unsuccessful; nothing could have prepared her for the sight of his true face.

In all honesty, it wasn't as bad as she had originally pictured; she had conjured up this twisted, vomit-inducing, god-awful Freddy Krueger type face that even a mother couldn't love. She knew it was cruel, and that Brahms wasn't a terrible person for his looks alone (albeit a misguided one), but when you wonder about something long enough your imagination simply starts to run wild. And she had figured it best to assume the worst in case she ever did get the chance to see his face, as she was now.

Brahms had grown rigid as she stared and said nothing, and Greta quickly made to make light of it. She didn't want him assuming the worst.

"This is what you were worried about?"

She smiled and raised a hand to his face, keeping her movements slow so as not to startle him. The tips of her fingers brushed against the leathery texture of the burnt skin beside his eye; it really wasn't all that bad, only a portion of his face had been burned. And judging from the scorch marks she remembered seeing on the side of the Heelshire home, it could have been much, much worse.

She stroked his face in a loving manner, her thumb brushing over his lips. "You're beautiful, Brahms. Very handsome."

And he was. Without the burns, he would have been rather attractive. Hell, even with them, he looked alright. It was strange how an injury could boost or degrade one's appearance in the eyes of others. Scars, especially.

She smiled gently at him as she ran her hand over his face, memorizing every dip and curve as best she could; she might not get the chance again. It wasn't until their lips brushed that she realized how close they were, and beyond her better judgment, Greta found herself closing her eyes and allowing herself to be kissed, to kiss him back. Brahms' lips were soft and gentle, only the corner of his mouth being burnt and slightly warped, and Greta found that while she was extremely uncomfortable, she didn't feel even the slightest hint of disgust at being so close to him. She would be lying to herself if she said she hadn't thought about it, wondered what it would be like to kiss him at some point; but they were merely passing thoughts she hadn't considered could ever become a reality the way they were now.

Brahms kissed her with a bit more fervor, backing her into the wall as an audible 'thump' vibrated through the room. Normally, she would have been concerned as to whether or not Malcolm or anyone else had heard her (did Brahms realize whose house this was?), but at the moment it was the least of her worries. He drifted from her mouth to her jaw, making his way down her neck as she wrapped her arms around him and threaded her fingers through his hair.

The sudden sound of sirens broke them apart, and Brahms hurried to the window to see what the commotion was. It sounded like an ambulance, but it may just as well have been police cars.

He looked back to her, and she could tell leaving her side was the last thing he wanted, but Greta was far more concerned with his safety than anything else.

"You need to get out of here," she warned. "Now."

His body language told her he was torn - he didn't want to go but he knew he couldn't stay, either - but she knew him; fact and logic would win out over all else. As the sirens sounded closer, Brahms locked eyes with her one final time before taking his mask and putting it back in place, climbing out the window and disappearing into the night. Greta instinctively kicked off her sheets and ran after him, but to her dismay he was nowhere to be seen. The sirens came blaring around the corner - they _were_ police - and she felt her blood run cold as they came closer.

They were here for her. She knew it. She-

But she watched, frozen in place as the police cars sped toward her flat...and right past her.

She stared, feeling a little foolish and more than a little paranoid as they disappeared around the next block. So they weren't here for her. For Brahms. But if that was the case, then that could only mean-

"They don't know he's here," she whispered to herself.

And if they didn't know he was there, that could only mean they didn't know he had escaped yet. Her head hurt to think of how he had even maneuvered his way to where she was, let alone escape. When she thought about it, she supposed the mental institute wasn't that far away from where she was staying with Malcolm, but how could he even know of her location? Or how to get there? As far as she knew, he had never left the Heelshire home. It really didn't make any sense, but she also knew that Brahms was far more intelligent than he let on. If he wanted to know how to get to her, he would find a way.

The sirens faded and Greta reluctantly shut the window, drew the curtains and got back into bed, feelings of restlessness overtaking her even in sleep.

* * *

"So what have you decided?"

Greta's head shot up, attention swayed from her eggs and toast. "Hm?"

"About the will," Malcolm's mother asked, handing her a cup of tea. Greta didn't like tea, but accepted it out of respect for Malcolm and all his family had done for her. "That's quite a hefty fortune you've inherited. Should you accept it."

She could tell that Malcolm's mother was just curious and not trying to intentionally be nosy, but she herself didn't really know what she was going to do. She hadn't really thought about it all that much, only what she was going to do about Brahms. But the sudden question emitted an automatic response that even she hadn't been prepared for.

"Oh. Um...I- I think I'm gonna keep it."

The clattering of utensils against plates ceased around her and everyone was suddenly staring.

"...Really?" Malcolm asked, shocked but trying to hide it. "After all you've been through in that house you want to...keep it?"

Controlling the amount of blood rushing to her face, Greta nodded and tried to make light of the subject. "Uh...yeah. I mean, the only thing that made it a bad experience was Brahms, and...he's gone now. And it's a nice house. I'd hate to see it crumble away. Or worse; get bought out by some rich snob that only stays there on 'holiday'."

The kids chuckled at her attempt at a British accent, and Malcolm and his mother tried to hide their smiles. They were so similar, she noticed. It was obvious who Malcolm took after.

"Uh...well, I...guess we better head to the police station after breakfast, yeah?"

Greta nodded, albeit reluctantly; even she couldn't believe what she had just said.

Oh, well. Can't go back on it now.

"Yeah. Yeah, sounds great."

The kids left to get ready for school and the grownups continued eating, and Greta finished her eggs and toast with a nauseous feeling in her stomach.

* * *

 **A/N: I actually wanted this chapter to be longer, but I thought this was a good cutoff point. I had planned on ending the story with this chapter, but I think we have at least one or two more to go before that can happen. Much thanks to anyone still reading this, I know it's been a while and thank you for your patience ;^;**

 **'Til next time!**


End file.
